


Inexplicable

by ofplanet_earth



Series: The Long Road [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, CEO!Thranduil, Character Death, Demisexual Thranduil, M/M, Mechanic!Bard, Modern Era, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Thranduil with a man bun, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 44,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4243284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been nearly twenty years since Bard had left his small town on a lake in search of greater things; he’d been to twelve countries on four continents, but until then, he'd never known what it felt like to find a home. He'd seen all the great wonders this world had to offer, and yet he could not recall ever seeing a more beautiful sight than the man standing before him.</p><p>The uppity Englishman with his posh accent and his car troubles wore square-toed shoes and tailored slacks; his coat was woolen, his gloves were leather and his scarf shone silky red; he had long, ice blond hair and a grim profile and Bard wanted to <i>touch</i>. When he spoke, his voice was deep and rumbling and he made the world come to life. </p><p>Or:<br/>Barduil soulmate AU in which everyone stops aging at 18 until they find their match.</p><p><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/pseuds/LoveActuallyFan">LoveActuallyFan</a> made <a href="http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/post/129219490073/inexplicable-inspired-art-series-of-pieces-for">THE MOST AMAZING COVER ART</a> for this story!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I read this prompt on tumblr and, well, one thing led to another.  
> This story is filled with fluff and angst, and I am completely unashamed.

∞

They say you know when it happens. They say you can feel it—the moment the world starts turning again. They say it's like catching your breath after scaling a flight of stairs at a full sprint: racing heart, a flood of adrenaline, a twinge of nausea. They say you don’t know what it is to be alive, until you find them.

Thranduil supposed they were right, though he could not remember. He was almost thirty, but he had been for what felt like an age, and somewhere along the way he'd forgotten what it felt like to see Rían for the first time. 

The day he asked her to marry him, the sun lit a yellow fire in her hair where it broke through the leaves of the trees above them. She wasn't surprised when he'd presented her with a simple band and a small diamond—she’d been pestering him to give it to her for weeks beforehand—but she’d wept with joy, regardless. 

He could remember her smile, the way her hair stuck to her forehead and flushed cheeks when she showed him their son for the first time. Thranduil hadn't been allowed in the room before then, and he recalled how surprised he'd been to see how tiny this child was. All that fuss for something so small. After the midwife had taken her leave, Legolas had gripped his father's hair in his tiny fist and fallen asleep as they'd sat beside his wife. 

Thranduil can remember a good many things about Rían—how she would curl against his back on lazy Saturday mornings; how she would brighten their small house with orchids and honeysuckle and daisies, all from her garden; how her laughter sounded like wind chimes on the first gentle days of spring. 

They say you can feel the moment your soul finds its home in another person and you start to grow old. 

What these stories omit is that you feel the instant you lose them, too. No one tells you what it is to find yourself standing alone, immobile, unchanging while the world turns on. There are no stories of how bleak life will seem once you’ve seen and lost a world with them in it. How even the night sky—starlight unsullied by cloud or lamplight—can feel cold, dim and unforgiving. 

Legolas was only five years old, the first night of The Blitz. When Thranduil woke, Rían was still asleep beside him, but Legolas was crying in the next room. The wood stove had burned down to embers and the house was heavy with chill. 

The first explosion must have been clear across the city, but it echoed monstrously in the quiet night. The chaos that followed was as instant as it was unending: the explosions grew closer, aeroplanes rumbling overhead until the ground beneath their feet trembled and the view outside their windows was engulfed in fire. 

Legolas was screaming. Thranduil swept him from his bed and called out to his wife. There was no response, only the sound of splitting and crumbling of wood as the far wall of their house collapsed. 

The night was consumed with fire and smoke. He put his son on the floor of the kitchen, promising him his Ada and Naneth would be back for him, and ran to find Rían in their bedroom.

They say that once you’ve found your soulmate, the world is brighter. You feel their happiness as well as your own. Their wants, their love, their longing, their pain. 

Stepping into the bedroom, the fire was as bright as anything Thranduil had ever seen. The smoke smothered him and burned his eyes; flames leapt from their bed and the floor and the walls. Beyond, in the corner, was his wife, trapped beneath fallen beams and planks from the fallen roof. 

He’d tried to climb over the timber, tried to reach her through the flames. She was burning—they were burning. The roof crumbled again. Thranduil had never felt such pain as he did in that moment, when he felt her die. For what could have been hours he stayed there, kneeling too close to the flames, unfeeling—finally, horribly unfeeling and unable to breathe.

He might have died there with her, had he not heard Legolas crying over the crackle of the fire. 

Sirens screamed and fire poured down on London as Thranduil stumbled out onto the street, his son clinging to him with his hands around his neck. Thranduil heard nothing even as bombs fell and his son cried, said nothing as he watched his home burn.

For days he said not a word. His burns were treated hastily and the survivors were packed shoulder-to-shoulder into the underground tunnels. When the sun came up and the aeroplanes had gone, when his neighbours began clearing the streets and claiming their dead, Thranduil took his son and they left the city. 

For months, they were both of them inconsolable. Legolas could not sleep unless he was with his Ada, holding tightly to the remaining unburned strands of his hair. And when, one night, he did fall asleep without his father, Thranduil found himself unable to sleep without his son. 

His wounds healed, though his sensation was dulled and his eyesight all but lost in his left eye. The world was grey and he moved through it numbly, caring for nothing but his son—his little leaf. 

Time is a strange thing; passing at once very slowly and very quickly. A single day can seem an age and yet decades can pass within the blink of an eye. 

They do not tell you how to live once you have become a statue; sedentary, unaffected by the affairs of the world and yet forced to watch it pass. There is no advice given on how to endure, and yet, endure is all there is to do.

Somewhere along the line, the bombs stopped falling. The war was won, but Thranduil never went back to London; he saw no point. There was no grave, no memory. His son came of age, the century turned and The world moved ever faster, leaving Thranduil further and further behind. 

∞

His car had broken down. 

Again. 

Thranduil cursed under his breath and tried turning the key in the ignition once more, only to receive a dying sputter and a whine in response. A plume of smoke gushed from the seams of the hood.

He sighed and dropped his forehead against the steering wheel. From his coat pocket he pulled his mobile. His gloves, he peeled from his fingers before waking the device and locating his recent calls log. There were four icons on his home screen—four too many, as he often said, but if Thranduil were to be honest with himself, smart phones were one of the more useful inventions of the past century. 

Legolas,  
Legolas,  
Legolas,  
That Damnable Mechanic,  
Legolas. 

He would have to call his son as well, once he was through dealing with this most recent car trouble. He had half a mind to leave the god-forsaken pile of metal on the side of the road and call a cab. Instead, he called the damned mechanic and returned his head to rest against the steering wheel, reminding himself not to yell—it made everything so much more difficult, after all—while the call connected. 

“Girion’s,” The voice coming over the line was smooth, rolling and crisp, and not at all what Thranduil was expecting.

“You’re not Girion,” he frowned dumbly.

“Sorry?” 

“Girion never answers the telephone with his own name.”

“Well, you’ve got me there; he’s my grandda. But you’ve called and I’ve answered, so what can I help you with?” 

Thranduil opened and closed his mouth, the beginnings of several words flitting past him and away, leaving him feeling much like his automobile: stuttering and useless. “It’s ah… it’s my car.” 

“Well, if you bring it in I can have a look for you,” The man’s voice was pleasant enough, but short, as though he’d been caught in the middle of some more important task. Perhaps he had been. Thranduil fumed regardless. 

“I can’t _bring_ it anywhere, that’s the point. The bloody thing won’t ignite!”

“Won’t ignite,” The man paused, “yes, I see how that might be a problem. Well, tell me where you are, I’ll come give you a tow.”

Thranduil sighed his annoyance but thanked the man and gave him his location. He disconnected the call, tossed his mobile on the seat beside him, and settled in to wait. After so many years, he was good at waiting. He found it was a skill, not unlike riding a bicycle; it took practice, but with enough time it could be mastered. If there was one thing Thranduil had plenty of, it was time. From his satchel he pulled his copy of Jean-Paul Sartre’s _Nausea_ and opened to his most recent place marker. 

Yes, Thranduil was very patient. And quite fortunately, for the tow truck took nearly an hour to reach him and when it finally arrived, the driver was not half as agreeable as the man who had answered Girion’s telephone. This man had an awful, grating, whining voice and he smelled vaguely of fish. His hair was greasy and he was an awful, awful driver. Thranduil himself could have driven the truck better and he had half a mind to do so.

At the very least, they made good time reaching the mechanic. When they finally did arrive, Thranduil leapt from the cabin before the truck had come to a full stop. He ran his hands through his hair and straightened his coat and scarf, more for his own comfort than worry over his appearance. 

He strode through the open garage door and up to the small desk in the corner. While he waited, Thranduil pulled his mobile from his pocket, pulled off a glove and prepared to call Legolas for a ride home. Footsteps approached from the far end of an SUV in the garage and stopped nearby. 

“Girion, honestly,” Thranduil turned but kept his eyes trained on the screen of his telephone, “That infernal contraption has broken _again_. I was just here last week: I don’t understand why—“

As he looked up, he realized this was not Girion, but rather a tall man—almost as tall as Thranduil himself—with dark hair and dark eyes. His hair was long, though not as long as Thranduil’s, and pulled messily away from his face. His denim pants were ripped at the knee and frayed at the seams and covered in smudges of grease. A red rag was in his hands, though he seemed to have forgotten it. 

Thranduil suddenly felt very strange. His heart began pounding in his chest and the bottom of his stomach felt as though it were filled with rocks. His hands were numb and he felt as though the ground might have dropped out from under him. He gripped the edge of the counter as he swayed slightly. The room appeared too bright and the sound of the truck behind him was too loud.

This man, with his dark hair and his ripped jeans was no better, staring slack-jawed and standing stone-still.

A moment more passed with nothing but silence filling the space between them before Thranduil found his voice. “You’re not Girion.” His mouth was slow to form the words. Stars, did he feel strange. 

A slow smile crept over the man’s face. It wrinkled the corners of his eyes and revealed dimples in his cheeks. “Thanks for noticin’.” 

“I—“ Thranduil stuttered for a moment, looking around the garage for a sign of the short grey man. “Where is he?” 

“He’s out of the shop today, but it looks like we’re in business.” The man smirked.

Thranduil opened his mouth and closed it, looking around the shop again and back to his phone and feeling so very _wrong_. “I must go,” his voice shook, as did his knees as he turned around and marched out of the shop and down the street. He was taking frantic, gasping breaths as he called Legolas. When the call connected he was barely able to form the words, let alone complete sentences. “Girion’s… car… need a… please come,” 

Legolas arrived less than twenty minutes later to find his father on the street corner just past the garage, leaning against a lamp post with his head bowed against his knees. 

∞


	2. Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard had grown up on his parent’s stories about fate. About destiny. The way Bard saw things, if the universe had some great plan for him, if it was destiny that he meet his soulmate and fate that guided him along the way, why should he fret over the who and the where and the why?

∞

Bard had grown up on his parent’s stories about fate. About destiny. He’d lost count of all the times he’d heard the tale: they had met when they were only fifteen, when his ma had moved from Scotland with his gran to the small town by the lake. They were inseparable, story goes.

When his da had turned eighteen, it was only a couple weeks before the start of their first year at uni. His ma was still a month behind him and they didn’t see each other again until the winter holiday. To hear his da tell it, he hadn’t known any more than she had at the time, that they were soulmates. Even more than thirty years later, his ma would call her husband a rotten liar and smack him on the arm for his slight.

The way Bard saw things, if the universe had some great plan for him, if it was destiny that he meet his soulmate and fate that guided him along the way, why should he fret over the who and the where and the why?

Most people thought the waiting was the hard part—that the real living came around only once you’d found your match. Bard saw no point in wasting away, sitting and brooding; he had plenty of time, and he’d never been good at sitting in one place.

Bard wanted to _go_ places. He wanted to have adventures and see the world. He went to Uni on his da’s insistence (what if the girl you’re meant to marry is there and you never meet her?), but he felt no such urgency himself. Besides, when he did meet his soulmate, whenever and wherever fate had foretold, he wasn’t sure he’d be bringing home the beautiful girl his parents were envisioning.

It used to be that folks didn’t date. His parents never dated—they never even stopped aging. Used to be, you found your soulmate and that was that. Most people in his parents’ time continued growing old with barely a year or two in between, but the world was changing—folks were finding their soulmates across entire oceans, and often, that took some time. Bard had been eighteen for near twenty years, but he didn’t pay much mind. 

He’d come to work in Girion’s auto shop a few years back, learning the trade under his grandda’s watch. He thought Bard was biding his time, only waiting around until something better came along, but Bard enjoyed the work they did there. It was satisfying; taking something broken and making it work again. 

He told everyone it didn’t matter who his soulmate was. He always said there was beauty in everyone, so what did it matter who fate had picked out for him? Of course, the mind makes certain assumptions, and when some uppity Englishman called to complain that his car wouldn’t _ignite_ of all things, it had seemed a nuisance. 

Bard had been left to watch over Girion’s on his own for the day and he was up to his ears in rusted parts and transmission fluid and he simply didn’t have the time. The tow truck rumbled into the front lot and he sighed. He hadn’t wanted to call Alfrid in, today of all days, but help was help and he couldn’t leave the shop empty. 

Yes, it was true. Bard had certain assumptions. He’d assumed the day he met his soulmate would be a happy day. He had no delusions that they’d chase the sunset in a ’64 camero or any such nonsense, but he assumed he wouldn’t be stuck working even after they’d finally found each other. He’d assumed everything would fall into place: that it would be easy. That was how it was supposed to be, wasn’t it? 

_Easy?_

If bard was being honest, he’d envisioned someone like himself; a kindred spirit travelling the world, living their life rather than just passing the time and waiting.

What he found though, he had to admit: fate had surprised him.

Bard didn't fancy himself a romantic, but in that moment he understood what people meant when they said you didn't know what it was to be alive until you'd met your match. It had been nearly twenty years since he left his small town on a lake in search of greater things. In that time he’d been to twelve countries on four continents, but until right then, he'd never known what it felt like to find a home. He'd seen all the great wonders this world had to offer, and yet he could not recall ever seeing a more beautiful sight than the man standing before him.

The uppity Englishman with his posh accent and his car troubles wore square-toed shoes and tailored slacks; his coat was woolen, his gloves were leather and his scarf shone silky red; he had long, ice blond hair and a grim profile and Bard wanted to _touch_. When he spoke, his voice was deep and rumbling and he made the world come to life. 

The sounds of his grandda's garage were louder, sharper. The smell of motor oil and exhaust fumes were thick in the air, though he'd become all but immune to it over the years. The Englishman turned, his eyes downcast. The sunlight was golden as it shone upon him and Bard stood, transfixed. He looked on as the man furrowed his brow and spoke again. 

Bard fought his way though the dizzy, swimming thoughts clouding his head and he smiled, watching the man stumble over his words. He didn't look like the kind of man who often spoke without a clear direction and Bard felt he may be witnessing a rare sight. He found himself being deliberately cheeky, just to see if he could deepen the flush of the man's cheeks.

He could.

It couldn’t have been two minutes since the Englishman had come strutting into his shop and changed everything. But then he was gone; no trace he’d ever been there besides the quickened pace of Bard’s heart and the fading smile on his face.

He hadn't even learned the man's name.

∞

The next day Girion returned to work and Bard was glad to hand over the shop in favour of focusing on his own project. He threw himself into repairing the Englishman's ignition, knowing the faster it was finished, the sooner his soulmate would return and claim it. 

"Grandda," Bard and Girion were eating lunch at the desk; the older man devouring a steak and cheese sandwich while Bard picked at his own Reuben. His grandda grunted in response, his attention never straying from his lunch. 

"A man dropped off his car yesterday complaining of ignition problems. I have it almost finished, but he didn't leave his name or number before he left." 

Girion chewed before answering, though bits of steak lingered visibly in his mouth and on his beard. "What sort of man?" 

"London accent. Tall. Long blond hair," Bard watched as his grandda thought. 

"Ah. Thranduil. I swear, I'll have replaced every part of that man’s car before I die." 

Thranduil. What kind of a man came with a name like that? Where did he come from? What had he seen of the world? 

"What do you know about him?" 

"What are you asking after him for?"

Bard shrugged, dropping his gaze to his sandwich. "No reason, I s'pose. He didn't say much while he was here and then he just...disappeared." 

From the lot, Bard heard the old engine of the shop's pickup cut out and the door creak open and slam. "Oi, Bard," Alfrid called from the door. "Got the part you wanted. Had to travell all 'round town to find, it too." 

Bard leapt from his chair and snatched the box from Alfrid's greasy hands.

"A thank you would be appreciated." 

"It's a spark plug Alfrid, you could have found one anywhere, had you cared to look." The shorter man sneered and walked to the desk.

"Bard," Girion turned to face his grandson and wiped his mouth of cheese and crumbs before planting his fist atop his knee. "Don't you go bothering the poor man, lad. He's had enough trouble for three lifetimes and he prefers to be left alone." 

“Who’s this?" Alfrid raised his eyebrows as he sat himself in Bard’s empty chair. 

“No one,” Bard said quickly, at the same time his grandda replied, 

“Mister Oropherion.” 

“Miserable, cold man, he is. I gave him a tow yesterday—didn’t say a word of thanks.”

Bard rounded the garage to the Englishman’s car and busied himself under the hood. “You don’t exactly bring out the best in people Alfrid.” 

The short man ‘hmph’ed his displeasure and continued on. “I saw his eye, you know, while we was driving. They say usually he wears a coloured contact, but I could see the grey ‘round the pupil. Nasty, that. No one knows how it happened. Say he hid away in his mansion for years before showing his face. Plastic surgery and whatnot. Can’t say I blame him.” 

“Alfrid,” Bard called from across the garage. “Shut up.” Of course he wanted to know more about this mysterious man, his Englishman, but not from the likes of Alfrid. Rumours only ever showed the darkest of sides to a person and this man, Thranduil, was anything but dark.

“After living so long, one might develop some common courtesy is all I’m sayin’.” He propped his muddy boots up on the desk before Girion scolded him with a smack on the knee. 

“One might also think to develop a decent work ethic, what with employment being so important in this economy.” 

Alfrid cleared his throat and straightened his jacket. “Right, well. Seein’ as you lot have gone and ordered in without me, I think I’ll go take my lunch now.” Alfrid stood and strode towards the open garage doors, shooting Bard a leering stare as he went. 

“That may be the most unpleasant man I ever met.” His grandda turned his attention back to his sandwich, and Bard couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“Aye, that he is.”

∞

The Englishman’s car was in working condition and ready to go well before three that afternoon, but when the time came to call and notify him, Bard found his hands were sweating and trembling. Sure, they were soulmates, but that didn’t give him the right to call the man out of the blue, did it? Thranduil hadn’t even given him his number—hadn’t even told him his _name_ —wouldn’t that be a little presumptuous?

Despite reassuring himself that he had been hired as the man’s mechanic and _that_ was what gave him the right to call, Bard busied himself with another project and asked his grandda to call, instead. 

He then spent the remainder of the day anxiously waiting, trying and failing three separate times to replace the alternator in a Smart Car—honestly, there was no room for any kind of work under the hood of those things—before his grandda took over and told him to mind the phones. 

This task was no better, for Bard found himself jumping at every noise, answering every call on the first ring, and looking up expectantly at each shadow cast by the trees outside. Stars, he was a wreck. He’d take waiting blindly for his soulmate over this suspense, any day.  
  _So much for waiting being the easy part._

Thranduil did not come that day. Five o’ clock found Bard slouched over the desk, his head resting heavily on the open palm of his hand and angled towards the street. The garage door slamming closed was what finally snapped him out of it. His grandda stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, with the afternoon light angled on the wall above his head.  
 “What the devil has gotten into you, lad?”

“I um… I’m sorry, it’s… it’s nothing. I’m just distracted is all. Sorry.” Bard looked at his hands.

“That better be all. You may look eighteen, but you’re a grown man and I don’t pay you to sit around looking all love struck and whatnot. 

Bard blushed. If he hadn’t been obvious enough already, the tinge of his cheeks surely gave him away. 

“Is it a girl, then?” 

“Ah, no.” Bard asserted. That certainly was not it. 

“By the stars, lad. You don’t have to worry yourself about this soulmate business. She’ll come along when she will! And trust me boy—you’ll know her when you see her.” His grandda spoke with the wisdom that came with hindsight and happy decades spent with his soulmate.

Bard’s cheeks must have been scarlet, judging by the smirk and the greasy rag his grandda tossed in his face. Bard scowled. 

“I might be a grown man, but at least I don’t look my age!” He called after the old man.

Girion laughed. “Sure fooled me!”

∞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the positive feedback! If anyone is interested in being a beta for this story, I'd be happy to have you! I'm mostly interested in outside views and feedback about the plot, character development, etc.


	3. Familiarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the years he'd spent frozen as he was had prepared him little for the feeling of growing old again. It was a novel sensation, one he had given little thought since the war. True, he appeared young; true, his scars had faded enough that the common observer rarely noticed, but he had never felt them so vividly. He had grown so accustomed to feeling nothing in the years that followed Rían’s death, it was a shock to him now, to experience the world and his own self so truly.
> 
> He _hated_ it.
> 
> Thranduil fumed and he flared and he smouldered, but he did not sulk. Sulking was for children and a child he was not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your kind words! here, have a chapter three :)

∞

Thranduil refused to get out of bed. Tuesday morning bled into Tuesday evening and found him largely unmoved. His phone had rung more than once, he had numerous messages from Legolas, but he couldn’t be bothered to check.

Thranduil was not sulking. Though after a hundred years, had he not earned the right? He was exhausted. His body ached. All the time he'd spent frozen as he was had prepared him little for the feeling of growing old again. It was a novel sensation, one he had given little thought since the war. True, he appeared young; true, his scars had faded enough that the common observer rarely noticed, but he had never felt them so vividly. He had grown so accustomed to feeling nothing in the years that followed Rían’s death, it was a shock to him now, to experience the world and his own self so truly.

He _hated_ it.

What a cruel fate, that he should be damned to walk the world alone for seventy-five years, only to see his punishment rescinded so unexpectedly. How vicious the stars were that they would take his wife from him, only to offer up in exchange some belated _replacement_.

Thranduil fumed and he flared and he smouldered, but he did not sulk. Sulking was for children and a child he was not. He _was_ impossibly tired. Perhaps, he mused, his age had simply been allowed to catch up with him.

Wednesday saw him move to lie on the couch and stare at the living room ceiling for a change of scenery. Then to the kitchen for a glass of wine. And in time, back for another. He checked his messages and asked Legolas to fetch his car. He was loathe to allow anyone to see him this way—still in his sleeping clothes from two days past, drinking alone, his hair in knots and his left eye bare, cloudy and dreary. But if he could not trust his son, he truly could trust no one. 

His laugh was a mirthless, short sound: some trust indeed. He had said nothing to Legolas of the man he'd met. The mechanic. The stars did have a cruel sense of humour, for the man was practically a boy still. He knew Legolas would find out in time; his son had always been perceptive and Thranduil seemed to be even more transparent when he was troubled.

Oh, was he ever troubled. He had spent the last seventy-five years sure in the knowledge he had of the world—of himself—and now he stood before a vast unknown.

Was he not the man who had sat awake beside Rían as she and their newborn son had slept? Had he changed so much that he was no longer the same soul that had lay with her for hours beneath the stars? Was he not the man who had knelt before the timber of a burning home and felt himself die? What sort of man had he become, that he would find his match in another after so violent a loss, as if time truly did heal all wounds?

A third glass of wine allowed him to admit, in the private space of his mind, that he was afraid.

He was not meant for this world with its fast cars, its loud cities and its instant connections, nor could he be meant for this man. He wanted for simpler times. He longed for his wife. She would fare better in this century than he. She had been so intrigued by new ideas, always itching to see someplace she’d never been, to learn something new, to experience life and all its mystery. 

He imagined she would have marveled at this strange world. Perhaps, with her by his side, he would have as well. Thranduil missed the way Rían would tell him stories of growing up on the sea. How she would carry Legolas on her shoulders and teach him the names of the trees as they would walk through the park. He missed her small, secret smile, the one she saved only for him and their son. He missed her passion and her devotion, her curiosity and her irreverence. 

Perhaps she had not been meant for that world—that time. Perhaps their roles should have been reversed. Yes, Thranduil thought, that was fate’s careless mistake; taking Rían when it should have taken him. How much happier his son would have been with his mother there to make him smile. How much brighter his world would have been, with her joy and her tales to colour it for him. 

A smile crept onto his face even as he dropped his head to rest in his hands, his thoughts lingering on ghosts and lost futures. He might have been that way for a minute or an hour when a hand came gently to rest on his shoulder. 

“Ada,” Legolas laughed as he knelt in front of him. “Please tell me you have a good excuse for making me pick up your car while you sit here.” When Thranduil looked up to meet him, he could see the smile fading quickly from his son’s face. 

“Forgive me, iôn-nín,” Thranduil’s tongue was dry and rough from the wine, his lips chapped and stained purple. “I… am not feeling well.” What a sight he must have made, an empty wine bottle and dirty glass on the table before him, his hair a matted mess, his dim eye casting a shadow over his face. His son had only seen it a handful of times; Thranduil tried to spare him, for he knew how difficult a sight it was to grow used to.

“What troubles you?” 

Thranduil swallowed, clenched his jaw, shook his head stiffly. “May we talk when you return? There is some cash on the hall table to cover the cost of repairs and for a cab.” He avoided his son’s prying eyes in favour of studying his own hands. 

Legolas sighed. “Alright. I’ll be back.” His hand was gone from his father’s shoulder and his footsteps traced a path toward the hall and out the front door. 

Thranduil did not move from his place on the couch. He counted the minutes as the grandfather clock ticked steadily to his right, waiting for his son to bring back news—of what? Certainly he was not interested in learning how the mechanic was faring. He did not care to know if he was feeling as miserable as Thranduil was. No, certainly not.

Legolas would demand answers when he returned. Perhaps he wanted to give them just as badly as he wanted to keep them to himself. 

Still, he counted the minutes. Two-fifteen turned into two-thirty and Thranduil’s breath came shorter as he felt an unexplained flood of emotion. His pulse pounded irregularly in his temple and in his clenched fists, but this excitement was not his own. From his own heart sprung terror and recognition, for this was a sensation he had long ago forgotten.

Whatever hope he’d clung to—that he had been mistaken, that the stars had indeed realized their mistake—whatever doubt had been lingering in Thranduil’s mind was now banished. His soul was indeed bound to the young mechanic, his deep brown eyes, his thin beard and his smile, gentle and easy where Thranduil’s was often sharp and ill-fitted. 

Legolas returned to find him still in the same spot as when he’d left, his eyes wide and his posture slouched. “Ada, please,” he sat beside his father, his movements slow and delicate, afraid the slightest pressure might break this fragile man. “What has happened? Tell me,” 

And Thranduil crumbled. He looked at his son, his only constant in all the wide, cruel world, and he opened his mouth and he told him everything.

∞

The morning found Bard in a sullen, bitter mood. It was a Wednesday, and Wednesdays always passed by in a dreary drag at Girion’s. The Englishman’s car sat in the front lot, its keys safely locked in the shop’s desk drawer; he sat behind the desk much the same as he had the afternoon before. His only remaining commission had been finished hours before and so he was left with nothing to do besides sit. 

So he sat, he waited, and he seethed.

The phones did not ring; his soulmate did not return. What sort of trick were the stars playing on him? How was it possible he had waited for this fabled connection seventeen years, only for the man to run away as soon as they’d met? Surely, there had been some mistake.

He felt an unexplained weariness, a blinding bewilderment and a sharp longing, though for what, he could not say. He felt as though a hole had been ripped through his chest and from it poured a lifetime of sorrow and regret and bitter, hateful cold. An impossible anxiety twisted at his stomach. 

Lunchtime came and went without a single customer or phone call and Bard ruminated his turn in fortune. So consumed was he by his thoughts that he started at the sound of a car door outside the shop. Bard busied himself with the list of inventory before him, his brow furrowing with concentration he did not have. 

He was confused when he heard the car pull away a moment later, until he looked up to see it was a cab that passed by down the street. Footsteps trailed in from outside, light and elegant and wide in their stride, and Bard's pulse beat staccato in his ears. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of golden hair as a tall figure rounded the corner and stepped into the shop.

He'd stopped breathing, he realized, and exhaled shakily as he turned to face the man who stood in the doorway. His blond hair was striking in its familiarity—Bard felt as though he'd seen it every day for years. The man's eyes—blue, yes, but somehow softer than he remembered—turned to him. Understanding seemed to dawn on the tall man, showing in the line of his mouth and the set of his brow as he strode forward. 

Bard’s own realization was slow, his heart hopeful even as his mind knew that this would not end how he had hoped. This was not _his_ Englishman.

Bard caught himself staring and immediately felt the flush rising in his cheeks. "Can I—" his voice was tenuous and his breath was jagged, but he cleared his throat and tried again. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm here to pick up my father's car," The man was no man at all—he looked eighteen, same as Bard. So the Englishman had a son. His accent was posh, yes, but lacked the haughty tone Thranduil’s had.

"Er, last name?"

"Oropherion." The young man's eyes were alight with mirth.

"That's an interesting name," Bard said as he busied himself opening the drawer of the desk and locating the correct set of keys. "Where's it from?" 

"Oropher was my grandfather’s name.” 

“I see. Right, well. Here you are. The total is two hundred." Bard handed over the keys and accepted the man's cash.

"Thank you,” said the young man, before turning toward the exit. 

A beat passed as Bard watched him go. ”Can I ask," Bard called after him, silently cursing his poor manners but unable to help himself. "Is your father not feeling well?" 

The young man with the long blond hair turned, a small smile in his eyes. He seemed to think for a moment before answering, "My father is unaccustomed to change. You must try to be patient with him." 

"What...what happened to—why is he…” 

The Englishman’s son seemed to understand, though Bard couldn’t say what exactly he wanted to ask. ”He does not speak of it. I think, if you are patient, he will tell you in time.” The smile was gone from his face and in its place a sadness settled in that Bard recognized instantly. He tilted his head slightly to one side, as if a thought had just occurred to him and that too felt immediately familiar. Bard’s head spun and his breath quickened. “What is your name?" the young man asked. 

"Bard," he replied, the smallest hint of a smile on his lips. 

“Legolas. I expect we will see each other again." He bowed his head gently before turning and exiting the shop. 

The Englishman's newly repaired ignition turned over and Bard could only listen as the car reversed and drove away. The lingering smile faded from his face as bitter resentment and weariness flared back to life in his chest. He hoped Legolas was right, but he couldn't quite find it in himself to believe him.

∞


	4. Friction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He took the stairs two at a time, drawn forward by the feeling in his gut that said he was _close_. He turned to the left, moving by an instinct he did not examine too closely. 
> 
> The light at the end of the hall was burned out. A man sat on the floor, silhouetted by the window beyond. This man's arm was draped across his knee and his head leaned against the wall as he gazed distractedly out the window. His features were set in stark contrast by the bright morning light and the shadow of the hall and Thranduil found himself staring. The anxiety coiled in his gut finally unfurled and he was overcome by a sense of calm he had not known in an age.
> 
> He stood for a moment, taken aback by the sight of his soulmate so forlorn and the knowledge that he had caused it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo, I know you've all been waiting for these two to be in the same room again.

∞

Thursday brought with it a headache and a disquiet that left Thranduil equal parts exhausted and restless. There was the bewildered sadness that stretched from across town to tug incessantly at the hem of his shirt and settle firmly in the back of his mind. There was the sharp and bitter hurt knotted in his brow and held tight in his fists. There was the panic and a nausea that urged him to run from his empty house in search of solace—in search of home. 

Thranduil tamped them all down even as they sprung up endlessly, one after another until he thought his head might explode and his limbs rend themselves from his body. Instead, he collapsed into bed before the sun had begun to set and he did not wake until it had risen again. 

It was Friday when Thranduil left the house. He woke to an unfamiliar anticipation and several missed calls and messages that nagged: he could not sit on the couch forever. 

Fine. If his days were to be numbered henceforth, then it would not do to waste them. 

He showered—his hair finally, blissfully untangled—and the headache eased from behind his eyes. He dressed himself properly for the first time in days. He donned his coat, scarf and gloves. He stepped into the crisp morning air and the nausea began to dissolve. 

His car started with no issue and he smiled briefly in spite of himself. The roads were clear and his drive to the office was uneventful. The clock read half-past eight and if traffic kept up this way he would even have time to stop for a coffee before beginning his day. The anticipation he woke with welled in his stomach as he drove on, but he shrugged and drove on. Work was work and there was little to be excited about over day-to-day business anymore. 

Thranduil did not make it to the Greenwood offices. Instead he found himself pulling up to a familiar brick tenement. He pulled his keys from the ignition and sat inside the car for a minute more, feeling as if he might have visited this place in a dream. Before long the restless panic that had driven him to pace his living room the day before finally urged him from the car. An old woman was exiting the building as Thranduil came to enter it, and he smiled when she held the door for him, though he could not imagine it was very convincing. 

He took the stairs two at a time, drawn forward by the feeling in his gut that said he was _close_. He turned to the left, moving by an instinct he did not examine too closely. 

The light at the end of the hall was burned out. A man sat on the floor, silhouetted by the window beyond. This man's arm was draped across his knee and his head leaned against the wall as he gazed distractedly out the window. His features were set in stark contrast by the bright morning light and the shadow of the hall and Thranduil found himself staring. The anxiety coiled in his gut finally unfurled and he was overcome by a sense of calm he had not known in an age.

He stood for a moment, taken aback by the sight of his soulmate so forlorn and the knowledge that he had caused it. He stood less than two metres from the man, but Bard hadn’t noticed his arrival. Thranduil’s voice was soft when he finally found the nerve to speak, but he might have shouted for how sharply the silence was broken. 

“What are you doing?”

The man leapt to his feet, his eyes wide. "Bloody hell!" He clutched his chest and swallowed between gasping breaths, "you scared me near to death! What are you doing here?" 

“I… don’t know," Thranduil confessed. 

"How did you know where I live? How did you even know I'd be here? I only just arrived myself." 

"I didn't," 

The mechanic frowned. "And you choose now to seek me out? Now, after you've spent _days_ sulking—"

"I was not _sulking_ —" 

"It's been _four days!_ " His voice cracked, a desperate sort of plea Thranduil understood too well. "You sent your son to pick up your car!" 

Thranduil's temper flared and he found himself taking a step forward to crowd into Bard's space. "I know!" His voice was venomous even as he saw the blame and resentment wash from Bard's face. Thranduil's own brow softened almost immediately and he stepped back, shame blossoming and dragging his gaze to the floor. “I am sorry." 

He knew it was not enough, knew it did not excuse his outburst or all the time he'd spent hiding away, but he offered it up all the same.

"I know," Bard's voice was gentle, patient and genuine, and Thranduil's guilt was crippling. Already he'd acted so poorly and already this man was forgiving him. He wanted to say these things—wanted to apologize again for what he'd done and all he was sure to do in the future. Instead he asked, "why are you sitting outside in the hall?" 

"Oh," the mechanic's hand rose to scratch the back of his neck and he laughed nervously. "I um, I forgot my keys." 

"You forgot your keys." 

"Aye," A plume of colour rose on the man's cheeks and Thranduil was staring again.

"How did you drive here, then?" 

"I don't drive. I mean I do— I _can_ drive, I just— I don't have a car." 

"You don't have a car?" Thranduil's eyebrows rose in disbelief. 

"Would you believe it was always breaking down?"  
 Thranduil's answering laugh was small, but filled with an unfamiliar humour. "It would seem you are in need of a better mechanic." 

"Indeed," Bard's lips quirked at one corner and his eyes were alight with mischief. "Do you know one?" 

Thranduil answered with his own smirk and a wistful reply at the ready, but a gruff voice called out from behind him. “Again, Bard! This is the second time this week!” Thranduil stepped back, away from the locked apartment door and away from his soulmate, the small distance allowing his mind to clear. 

"I know," Bard said as the older man pulled a key from his pocket. He turned the deadbolt and swung the door open. "Thanks Percy."  
 The man turned back towards the stairs, waving his dismissal over his shoulder. "I'm adding a fee to your rent next month. Ten quid each trip I make," his grumpy voice echoed lightly in the hallway, but Bard chuckled. 

Now that they were alone again, Bard's presence was consuming, the distance he'd placed between them erased now that they were alone again. "Would you... would you like to come in?" 

Stars, yes. Thranduil wanted nothing more than to follow the mechanic into his apartment, to make up for the time he’d spent starving himself and drink in his presence, to take of Bard's soul and offer up his own in equal parts, to be surrounded by him. 

"I really should go to work," came his weak excuse. 

The mechanic stepped forward, his proximity and unmasked _want_ weakening Thranduil’s already crumbling resolve.  
"Please, Thranduil," 

If he'd ever stood a chance of walking away, it was lost in that moment. His heart swelled almost painfully and he was overcome with the desire to hear this man speak his name again, every moment of every day, over and over. He could only nod his head numbly and watch as Bard smiled—a true, elated smile that set Thranduil’s heart racing—and turn to lead the way into his apartment. 

Bard turned and waited for him to follow while Thranduil stood, struck by the peculiarity of life and of fate. He marvelled at the man before him, who had turned his world bright, who had stirred in him a terror and a passion he had long forgotten. He hesitated only briefly before stepping into the vast unknown.

∞

When at last Thranduil made it to the offices of Greenwood, it was past lunchtime. Tauriel jumped from behind her desk when she saw him step from the elevator, a stack of papers that no doubt represented missed calls and meetings and scores of other responsibilities he had shirked in the past week.

His mind was not on matters of business; his thoughts were still caught up in Bard, distracted by the brief time they’d spent together, consumed by Bard’s accusations and his own raised voice. This visit was for damage control. His frown deepened at the thought. 

“Sir,” Tauriel began as Thranduil stalked the halls of Greenwood, tracing the winding path to his office. 

“It is good to see you back. I hope you are well,” Tauriel stopped just inside the door to his office as he rounded his desk and sank into his chair. “There are a number of meetings I’ve had to reschedule and several projects that still require your approval, if you’d like me to go over them with you—“ 

“Thank you, Tauriel. You may leave all your notes and I will address them in due time.” 

“But sir, there has been—“ 

“I am quite confident in your ability to do your job, even in my absence. That will be all.” Thranduil spared her a glance at last. She stood before his desk, clearly torn between following orders and resolving her own pressing matters. His dismissal won out, in the end, and she bowed her head lightly as she pulled the door closed behind her. 

Thranduil eyed the stack of papers she’d left him and sighed, ruminating the events of the morning. There was much he wished to change about his encounter with the mechanic; he regretted surrendering to his temper. He regretted storming out as he had. 

His mobile chimed in his pocket, the screen lit with a new message from an unknown number—Bard’s number. This was one action he did not regret. Regardless, he dropped his mobile on the desk to sit amongst Tauriel’s notes. He promptly spun his chair around, choosing to gaze out the window rather than face the repercussions of his own actions.

∞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to share your outrage and air your grievances in the comments or [on my tumblr](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com).


	5. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally Thranduil took a step forward, and then another, until he was standing before Bard in the dim light of his apartment. 
> 
> Now that he had him here, the space felt crowded, filled to bursting with Thranduil’s presence. Bard was entirely at a loss for what to say to say next. He settled for flipping the light switch on the wall and closing the door. He took a steadying breath and offered, "Cuppa tea?" He spared Thranduil barely a glance as he moved to the stove to put the kettle on and pulled two mugs from the cabinet. 
> 
> "Please." Thranduil sounded as collected as ever, his voice level and low. It stoked the fire burning low in Bard’s belly.

∞

Bard stood in his kitchen, looking into the hall where Thranduil stood, eyes wide and unsure and completely disarming. Thranduil was dressed just as well as he had been the first day they’d met—his wool coat and dark slacks all clean lines and sharp angles, while Bard wore a wrinkled flannel and perpetually stained jeans. He’d been at the shop for barely half an hour, but already the smell had sunk deep in his skin.

It seemed unfair that someone so devastatingly beautiful would be bound to someone so plain. The thought left a taste in Bard’s mouth he didn’t fancy, and so he pushed it from his mind in favor of willing Thranduil to move from his place in the hall. 

Finally Thranduil took a step forward, and then another, until he was standing before Bard in the dim light of his apartment. 

Now that he had him here, the space felt crowded, filled to bursting with Thranduil’s presence. Bard was entirely at a loss for what to say to say next. He settled for flipping the light switch on the wall and closing the door. He took a steadying breath and offered, "Cuppa tea?" He spared Thranduil barely a glance as he moved to the stove to put the kettle on and pulled two mugs from the cabinet. 

"Please." Thranduil sounded as collected as ever, his voice level and low. It stoked the fire burning low in Bard’s belly. 

“How’s— how’s your car running?" Stars, he was an idiot. Four days he'd been waiting to finally have a chance to talk to the man and all he could manage was a poor excuse for small talk. 

"Just fine, thank you" Bard leaned against the counter as Thranduil strode to the opposite side of the oven and mimicked his posture. He wasn't smiling, exactly, but Bard recognized the humour there. "Have you worked at Girion's long?" 

Bard shuffled his feet and bowed his head under the realization that this wasn't small talk: this was the conversation folks shared on a first date. He answered with a shrug and muttered, "Couple years, yeah." He did not look up again until the flush faded from his cheeks, but he could see when he met the Englishman's eyes that it was still clear on his face. Bard cleared his throat. “He ah… He wants me to take over the shop when he retires in a few years." 

"And will you?" Thranduil tipped his head just a touch to the left and Bard's heart thrilled at the motion, absurdly pleased that this moment was his, and his alone. 

He focused on the tea kettle to distract himself from the his embarrassment and blushing. "Dunno. I haven't made a habit of staying in one place too long." 

“And why is that?” 

Bard shrugged. “Haven’t found anything worth sticking around for.” 

“And now?” Bard might have thought the Englishman was teasing him, but his mouth was set in a curt line, his brow creased with worry. 

Bard pushed away from the counter, his steps slow and measured, but purposeful all the same. Thranduil’s shoulders tensed but otherwise he was as still as stone, his hands resting on the countertop behind him. His frown deepened as Bard moved closer, until finally Bard stood close enough to smell teakwood and spice and cool autumn air. He leaned in, slowly, studying Thranduil’s eyes for a sign he should pull away.

He found none. 

It was a light, fleeting thing, when their lips finally touched; a single point of contact in a wide world of empty space that pulled Bard in and demanded _more_.

“I may have found something,” Bard’s voice was a rough whisper and Thranduil’s sharp breath ghosted across the scruff of his beard. The second time, Bard lingered. His hands hovered in the air by Thranduil’s shoulders, eager to touch but ever wary Thranduil might be scared off again. Instead, he leaned subtly backward and the Englishman followed; his stony posture betrayed by his want.

When Bard’s hands did finally touch, the change was immediate. Thranduil stepped away from the counter to draw himself to his full height, his hands grasping Bard’s ribs and the back of his neck. The frayed nerves in Bard’s chest hummed as he combed his fingers through ice blond hair and slid his hand under Thranduil’s woolen coat.

Thranduil teased his tongue out to taste and Bard tipped his chin, but a moment later it was gone. He grasped at the fabric of Thranduil’s shirt and pulled himself tighter against that broad chest, biting lightly at Thranduil’s bottom lip. 

The desperate sound that whined in Thranduil’s throat was enough to make Bard dizzy. Thranduil held him tight and spun them so Bard’s back was pressed to the countertop, his hair caught tightly in the Englishman’s grip. His back arched as Thranduil towered over him and his mouth fell open in a hoarse groan. 

Bard’s skin was feverish, the heat pooling in his cheeks and in the palms of his hands and all the places where Thranduil was pressed against him. He thought he might lose himself in the sensation and he couldn’t find it in himself to care—he would have stayed there for hours, losing himself under the skilled touch of Thranduil’s hands and tongue. 

But Bard was coming to realize that good things were not meant to last in this world. The whistle of the tea kettle built to a scream and broke the spell Bard had woven to keep Thranduil close. Within an instant, the Englishman’s soft lips were wrenched away, his grip loosening in his hair and disappearing from the small of his back. 

Thranduil’s lips were dark and swollen and parted around gasping breaths. Bard held on to his shirt, hoping to keep him even as his eyes flashed dangerously. 

Thranduil had pulled himself from Bard’s grasp and was retreating to the door before Bard could open his mouth to protest. He ran to catch up and threw himself at the door, slamming it closed just as Thranduil had turned the knob to leave. 

The Englishman’s eyes were cold when he looked at Bard again. “I have to go. I am needed—“

Bard shook his head. “There is nothing you must do that is more important than this.” 

Thranduil turned and squared his shoulders, the muscles in his jaw jumping as his nostrils flared. “Do not presume you know anything about me.” 

“But I do know you.”

“You,” Thranduil spat, “You are a fluke. A misguided _replacement_ sent much too late by a fate that would see me broken again and again for its own amusement. You know nothing.” 

Angry tears burned Bard’s eyes. He felt the sting of Thranduil’s words even as he was flooded with the fear and the fury that spawned them. “I know enough. I know you’ve been alone almost as long as you can remember. I know you blame me for that misery just as much as you blame the stars. I know you’re afraid.” 

“I am not _afraid_ —” 

“You are.” Bard pushed closer into Thranduil’s space. “You’re afraid I’ll try and replace something you’ve lost— or worse yet, that I have already and that you’ve allowed it to happen.” 

“Do not _dare_ speak to me of loss! She was— You are nothing but a child.” 

“I’m older than I look,” 

“And yet I have outlived you three times over.” 

“You fool yourself. You may be old but you have not been living— you’ve been merely existing.” His words cut deep, he could see, but he did not back down. “I feel your years as if they were my own. They are empty and cold and lonely.” 

The truth of his words tempered Thranduil’s anger just slightly. “What was her name?” The screech of the kettle was loud in the absence of their shouting but they ignored it, the question left hanging in the charged air between them.

Thranduil began to argue. His brow creased deeper and his grip tightened briefly on the doorknob, but he sighed and let his hand fall. “Rían.” 

“You miss her: I know. You can sometimes scarcely remember what it was like to have her, and that makes her absence heavier. You hate yourself for thinking ill of her, even in the smallest of ways. Your every breath feels like a mistake, every smile a betrayal. _I know you_ , Thranduil.” 

The Englishman met Bard’s eyes at the sound of his name and his rage cooled further still.

“I know you better than I’ve known anyone in my whole life. I know you won’t allow yourself the hope that this could be something good— that maybe it could be great—because if you allow yourself the joy and it's taken away, it’ll break you.”  
 Thranduil closed his eyes and dipped his head, ribbons of his hair falling over his shoulder. Bard brushed them back and and held on, the palm of his hand cupping Thranduil’s cheek. “Look at me, please.” 

Thranduil leaned into the touch, but took his time meeting Bard’s eyes again. 

“I know you’re afraid. You fear me and you fear yourself, and I cannot blame you. Your fear is my fear, but so is your patience and your hope. I’m here. You may want to, but you can't run from me.” The pad of Bard’s thumb swept gently across Thranduil’s skin. “Please don’t run from me.” 

Thranduil shook his head slowly and dropped his eyes again. He reached into his coat, pulling a card from his breast pocket. His voice was a whisper, nearly covered by the scream of the tea kettle that still spouted steam across the kitchen. He grasped Bard’s wrist. “I am not running, but I must go.”

Thranduil let go of his hand, leaving the card pressed against his palm. Bard’s heart fell into his belly and he shivered as the cold of the room surrounded him again. 

“Please,” the word was a soft, bewildered thing and it earned him nothing more than a lingering look as Thranduil pulled the door open and stepped out into the hall.

∞

Bard could not say how long he had stood staring blankly at his apartment door. Eventually he moved back to the kitchen to turn off the burner and silence the kettle—his neighbours had likely complained already and, kind as Percy was, he would begrudge him a second trip to the third floor in the same day.

He left both the mugs on the counter by the stove. He did not make tea. Instead, he retraced his steps and pulled the door open. He left it unlocked (He’d walk back to Girion’s for his keys before asking Percy to open it for him again) and climbed the stairs that lead to the roof. He sat there awhile, leaning against the door and staring out over the town that stretch before him, the city in the distance. 

Before long he remembered the card Thranduil had left him with. It was crumpled slightly in his hand, but he unfolded it and began to read. 

Greenwood Energy, Inc.  
Thranduil Oropherion, CEO

There were business numbers printed in the bottom right corner. Bard turned the card over, bitter disappointment crowding the edges of his mind. There, in fine, precise handwriting, was another number. Bard laughed, though it sounded hollow even to his numb ears. 

Four days he’d spent not knowing anything about his soulmate, who he was or where to find him. He felt as though he’d lost him again, but a phone number was something, at least. Time would tell of course, but he dared to hope that perhaps, things were looking up. 

Bard pulled his mobile from his pocket, saved the number written on the back of the business card and typed out a text message. 

“next time you’ll have to stay for tea.”  
Sent to: The Englishman.

∞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for whatever reason, this chapter just did not want to be written. I was much too focused on the next one. please stay with me, at least until then. 
> 
> it's gonna get good.


	6. Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil couldn't be sure what had woken him, but he found himself sitting up in the dark of his bedroom, his heart racing and a chill settling into his sweaty bed clothes. He rarely dreamed of that night anymore, but as he sat up his breaths came in shallow, searing gasps. His mouth tasted of smoke and the skin of his left side felt freshly branded.
> 
> It was all so familiar, and yet tonight was vastly different. 
> 
> The chaos and the terror were fresh as they had been that night all those years ago, the flames vivid and consuming in a way Thranduil had not experienced for nearly fifty years. Tonight it was Bard who had called out to him from beneath the fallen beams of Thranduil's house. Tonight Thranduil had felt Bard die and it was so _unlike_ his old memories in ways he could not articulate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is for [LoveActuallyFan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/pseuds/LoveActuallyFan). thank you for your kind words, and for being (not so) patient and waiting.  
> enjoy!

∞

Thranduil couldn't be sure what had woken him, but he found himself sitting up in the dark of his bedroom, his heart racing and a chill settling into his sweaty bed clothes. He rarely dreamed of that night anymore, but as he sat up his breaths came in shallow, searing gasps. His mouth tasted of smoke and the skin of his left side felt freshly branded.

It was all so familiar, and yet tonight was vastly different. 

The chaos and the terror were fresh as they had been that night all those years ago, the flames vivid and consuming in a way Thranduil had not experienced for nearly fifty years. Tonight it was Bard who had called out to him from beneath the fallen beams of Thranduil's house. Tonight Thranduil had felt Bard die and it was so _unlike_ his old memories in ways he could not articulate.

His mobile rang. Bard's number flashed on the screen and panic sparked fresh in his chest. He answered before the second ring. “Bard.” 

Before Bard could even speak, Thranduil could hear his soulmate’s panting breath, could hear him choking on tears. “I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to call, I’m—“ 

“What is it?” Thranduil asked, though he knew the answer already.

“I had this— Stars, I feel foolish— I just needed to hear your voice." Bard's voice cracked and he sniffed loudly. Somewhere beneath the weight of guilt that sank in his chest, Thranduil's heart broke at the sound. 

"I'll be right there." He disconnected the call before Bard could respond and within minutes he had pulled on a pair of jeans and his coat, and set out into the night. 

The drive was brief, but rather than running through the front door and up the stairs as he had before, Thranduil was forced to ring the doorbell and wait to be let into the building. He could not recall ever feeling so impatient in his life. 

Finally the door unlocked with an awful grating buzz. Thranduil tore the door open and scaled the stairs three at a time. He didn't have to knock when he reached Bard's apartment; the door swung open just as he came to stand before it and Bard came crashing into Thranduil's chest.

The relief of it was so sweet, he could have cried.

"I didn't mean to wake you. I'm sorry, I just had to know you were alright. You wouldn't believe how _real_ it all felt, how _terrible_. Stars, I was so convinced I'd lost you." Even as Bard spoke, his voice broke with fresh tears. Thranduil could feel them wet his shirt.

Slowly, his arms came around Bard’s shoulders. Bard only gripped him tighter and buried his face in Thranduil's hair, all the anxiety of the past week and the terror and chaos of their nightmare falling away as they stood and held each other. 

This was not something Thranduil had ever anticipated—that Bard would be burdened with his tragedy— but it was foolish of him to think he could keep his distance and be the only one who suffered for it.

"I am so sorry.” These were the only words Thranduil could find to say, but he repeated them over and over like a mantra. He had brought this horror to Bard's dreams, had brought him undue pain by running away time and again. Bard deserved none of it: this was not some twist of his fate. This was not his curse.

Bard hushed him quietly and ran his fingers through his long hair. "Shhh, it's alright, it's alright."

“No,” Thranduil disentangled himself from the tight embrace. Bard’s eyes were swollen, his cheeks were red, his unruly hair told of a restless night and all of it was because of him. Bard still did not understand— had no idea what he'd been bound to. Yet he still smiled and it was the most earnest thing Thranduil had ever seen. "There is so much I should tell you." 

Bard studied him for a moment. His eyes flicked from Thranduil's hair to his mouth and between both his eyes. His hand rose to Thranduil's cheek to trace the faint lines of his scars. Bard frowned. His eyes went wide and his lips parted with an understanding he dared not speak aloud. 

Realization struck Thranduil then as Bard looked upon his disfigurement: he'd left the house so hastily he had forgotten his contact. Heat rose in his cheeks and his eyes fell to Bard's chest, hoping to shield the ugly grey from his soulmate's scrutiny. 

"Hey," Bard's voice was a whisper, rough and melodic, and Thranduil sank closer, wanting selfishly to keep it for himself even as he tried to push him away. "Please don't hide." He met Bard's eyes again, saw his smile widen and solidify the fine lines around his eyes. They told of hidden years and a calm, quiet wisdom. "I've been waiting seventeen years to find you. I'll have you now just as you are." 

Thranduil stared, bewildered. Not once had it occurred to him that Bard had been _waiting_ for him. Remorse sprang up fresh in his chest and he choked on the renewed apologies that rose in his throat. Bard had been waiting for _him_ and there had been no other before. Thranduil was no replacement, no unexpected surprise. He was Bard's soulmate: he had waited and now Thranduil _belonged_ to him. The revelation swept over him with the force of a hurricane. 

He looked upon Bard in wonder, lifted his hand to trace the lines at the corners of his eyes, the happy dimples in his cheeks, the soft curve of his lips and the rough hair at the contour of his jaw. No, this was not Bard's curse. It occurred to Thranduil that it was no curse at all; that perhaps the stars had seen fit to give him a second chance— to allow him to live out his life as it had been intended. 

He would be a fool to through it away.

"I did not know," He let his eyes fall closed, dropped his forehead to reach Bard's. "I am sorry. I have been so selfish." 

Bard's hand wove through Thranduil's hair, his fingers catching on the loose and messy braid he'd fallen asleep in, the slight pressure serving to hold him in place. It was an unnecessary precaution, for there was no part of Thranduil that wished to leave. He felt as though Bard's touch was the only thing keeping him from flying apart, as though he might disappear without Bard there to show him he was real. He felt whole and at peace and—more than content—he felt _happy_ , as if he'd been asking the same question over and over for seventy-five years and finally found the answer.

"Will you come inside?" 

Thranduil did not hesitate. He nodded, the movement feeling exaggerated against Bard's forehead.

"And will you stay?" Thranduil breathed deep the faint smell of musk and motor oil, of freshwater and _home_. He could not imagine ever wanting to be anywhere else, not now that he had found this nirvana, but there was uncertainty in Bard's voice, and it flared his guilt anew. Dozens of apologies, a hundred reassurances and endless promises all crowded together and squeezed his throat. In the small space that remained, he could form only one word.

"Yes."

∞

Thranduil slept that night more peacefully than he had in an age. He was surrounded by the heady smell of Bard's pillow and wrapped tight in the weight of Bard's duvet, yet something was amiss.

When Thranduil opened his eyes, it was to see the steep angle of sunlight falling through foreign window shades. When he turned over and reached out, it was to feel the cold shock of an empty bed. 

Had it not been for his unfamiliar surroundings, he might have thought he'd dreamt the events of the previous night. But after a moment he could hear the muted clang of a skillet and the _put put put_ of a coffee maker coming from beyond the bedroom door. His nerves calmed and he pulled his jeans on once more, his bare feet padding against the cold hardwood as he left the bedroom.

Thranduil stood at the mouth of the hallway, drinking in the scene he found in the kitchen. The cozy smell of coffee and eggs permeated the air and Bard stood in front of the stove, his messy hair brushing his bare shoulders and a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms hanging on his hips. He looked up from the stovetop and turned, a smile on his face and a spatula in his hand. 

"Morning, sleepy head." 

A whole mess of words—denials and retorts and lighthearted quips—crowded his mind, but he spoke none of them aloud, afraid that he might startle them both out of this comfortable space. He stood for a moment, savoring every detail as Bard turned back to the stove. Thranduil shuffled across the tiled kitchen floor and reached his hands out to meet the skin of Bard's sides. He was soft and warm and Thranduil pressed himself against his back, resting his chin on Bard's shoulder. 

"Sleep well, did you?" Bard's voice rumbled through his body and resonated inside Thranduil's own chest. He said nothing; only hummed in response. "Well I should think so. It's half past eleven already. I didn't want to wake you, but I was hungry and there's only so long I can lie in bed."

Thranduil traced the lines of muscle that wrapped around Bard's ribs and his hips, up and down in diagonal lines until Bard began to squirm. "Hey," He whined but there was a smile in his voice and Thranduil did not stop—only ghosted his fingers lighter as he drew curves and lines across his soulmate's skin.

"Stop it now, I'm handling a hot stove here—" Bard began to laugh and twist in Thranduil's grip. He dropped his spatula on top of the eggs and turned himself around. He gripped Thranduil's wrists and held them down at his sides. His brown eyes were wide and alive and a sleepy smile pulled at the pillow lines on Thranduil's face. 

Bard stood on his toes to reach his lips. Where their kisses the day before had been fierce and hungry, now they were slow and soft, unhurried and sweet and Thranduil’s hands rested on Bard's hips where the band of his bottoms met his bare skin. 

"D'you know what today is?" Bard mumbled the words against Thranduil's mouth, his teeth sharp when they nipped lightly at Thranduil's lower lip. A shiver crawled across his skin. He said nothing in favor of Kissing Bard again and pressing his fingertips more firmly against his hips.  
 "It's Saturday," Bard spoke through and around deep breaths and peppered kisses. “Know what that means?" Thranduil found he did not care to know the day or the time, only that he could continue kissing, continue holding. 

Thranduil hummed a noncommittal questioning sound in response.

"It means I'm holding you hostage all day." Yes, that sounded agreeable. "Surely even _you_ can take the day off once in a while." Hidden behind the smug, teasing tone of Bard's voice was an ignored hurt that stoked the guilt Thranduil thought he had extinguished during the night. 

Thranduil pulled away only enough to open his eyes and focus his blurry vision on Bard—his proximity and the late morning light showing his eyes to be hazel rather than brown—flecks of gold and green and mahogany dancing in circles as they adjusted. Thranduil nodded solemnly and watched, rapt, as a pleased smile blossomed on Bard's face. 

There was little more Thranduil wanted in that moment than to be with Bard, to be close to him, to continue touching him. He marveled at his change in fortune now that he had stopped fighting this fate— not one week ago he had been doomed to an eternity spent enduring a cruel world in an empty house. Now, his future was filled with Bard and all the uncertainty and possibility that came with growing old.

When Thranduil finally spoke, his voice was still gravelly and heavy from sleep. "Your eggs are burning."

∞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading. I'm thrilled at the feedback I've received, and I hope you're still enjoying it :)


	7. Felicity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A hundred years old?" Bard found himself struck dumb, for surely this was impossible. His soulmate's skin was smooth, unwrinkled, nearly perfect but for the spider web of scars that wove deep across his neck and crept upwards over his jaw. But even these were like silver, delicate and shimmering slightly in the light of Bard's living room. Thranduil narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow to show the deep creases in his forehead and there— in that frown Bard could see traces of heartache enough to fill two centuries. "Stars, imagine all you could do with time like that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, dear friends! 
> 
> this chapter is rather short— I'm driving to Canada early in the morning, but I wanted to post what I had before I left!
> 
> if any of you watch Halt and Catch Fire (and, I'll just say it: you should. it's fantastic!), you might like my hacker!AU, "[Deadlock](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4475792/chapters/10173713)"

∞

As the stories go, a soul doesn’t last long once they’ve lost their mate. When one half of a pair passes on, be it due to illness or disaster, the other fades not long after. It’s rare, but there are those who linger— cursed to walk the world like ghosts. These unlucky souls are not often spoken of. Some dare to whisper of their bravery, for enduring such a fate is unthinkable. Some call it unnatural, but most fear such talk will tempt the wrath of the stars and so they say nothing.

Never had Bard heard of a soul who had found their match twice. Such a thing seemed an impossibility, and yet he knew it to be true as surely as he knew his own name. He listened to his soulmate as he told him of his late wife, of how she was adventurous and bold and unerringly bright.  
 Thranduil told him of their wedding day, of how Rían had woven circlets of twigs and berries and bright orange leaves for them to wear on their heads. He told Bard of his father’s outrage when they had refused his offer to pay for a grand ceremony, choosing instead to be wed outdoors and witnessed by only a small gathering of their friends. Oropher had become quite successful in the coal mining industry and, being newly acquainted with London high society, had hoped for a better match for his son.

But it was a fruitless fight. Even in those days, Thranduil said, there was no denying a bonded pair, even in the face of social class and convention. Rían's father had been little more than a pauper, making his meagre living as a farmer outside the city. 

Bard listened as Thranduil recounted the night his family had been broken, of how his accursed fate had been burned onto his face for all to see. He spoke of the pity, of the whispers, of the terror he had inspired those first years. 

When folk do speak of those who live on, they say it takes an immeasurable strength to endure in the face of such tragedy. Bard believed it; he could see in the shadow of the Englishman's brow and in the set of his jaw how true it was. He had seen fire and ruin and faced the wrath of evil men and yet he had survived. Bard could not imagine how; he would never forget the memories he had seen through Thranduil's eyes— could not imagine living with them for as long as he had. 

And yet he was infinitely glad for it. Whether by some quirk of their fate or by some grander design, Thranduil had found his way into his arms and Bard would not exchange him for anything. 

He had grown up hearing stories of the wonder of soul bonds and yet he had been wholly unprepared for this feeling. Was this how everyone felt once they'd found their soulmate? Did every matched pair know the same terror he did, now that he understood how close he had come to never meeting Thranduil at all? Did they all feel so lucky? 

"You said this was during Blitz. In the forties?" 

"Yes."

"But that was over seventy years ago," 

"Indeed."

"How old does that make you?" 

The Englishman smirked, but it was a cruel, defensive twitch of his lips. "Do you think me a liar?" 

"What? No! Of course not, I'm just curious, is all." 

"Do you want to know, truly?"

Bard laughed to cover the sharp worry in his gut. "Why would I not?" 

"You make light of my age, but I wonder if you would find the knowledge of it rather... off-putting." 

The uncertainty in Bard's stomach clenched and crystalized and poked at his heart with an uneasy twinge. He pressed it down and leveled with Thranduil's cool gaze. "What, pray tell, might I be put off of?" They were seated on Bard's couch, Thranduil facing forward and Bard angled toward him with his foot tucked under his thigh. 

"Your... affinity for me." 

"Oh? And what makes you so sure? You don't know much about me— perhaps my... affinity is for older men." 

"Is that so?" the smirk on Thranduil's face widened, so Bard could see his teeth and the amusement covering up his hesitation. 

"Aye," Bard smiled and the worry wrapped tight in his chest began to disintegrate as laughter rose in his throat. "The older the better."

"I am just north of one hundred years." 

"A hundred years old?" Bard found himself struck dumb, for surely this was impossible. His soulmate's skin was smooth, unwrinkled, nearly perfect but for the spider web of scars that wove deep across his neck and crept upwards over his jaw. But even these were like silver, delicate and shimmering slightly in the light of Bard's living room. Thranduil narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow to show the deep creases in his forehead and there— in that frown Bard could see traces of heartache enough to fill two centuries. "Stars, imagine all you could do with time like that." 

His musings were rhetorical; he meant no harm by them, but Bard could could see the faintest hint of the dark thoughts that swirled through Thranduil's mind. "Imagine all you could lose." 

Thranduil's eyes wandered away from Bard and across the room and down to the cup of tea he held tightly on his lap. That was enough, Bard decided. Enough of such heavy talk and sad reflections. 

"Well. I must admit, I am a bit put off." Thranduil quirked one brow and Bard smiled, for the small movement was enough to break his solemn mask. "You're not nearly old enough for my tastes."

A beat passed in silence between them, enough time for Bard's mind to overflow with embarrassment and regret and second-guesses before Thranduil began to laugh. He laughed, and all the pained lines the cruel years had writ on his porcelain face were washed away by a glee so complete and sincere that Bard could do nothing but look on in awe. 

Surprise snuck into the curve of the Englishman's brows, as though he could not believe the laughter had come from his own throat. He rose his hand and covered his mouth as his shoulders shook and Bard moved forward to take the mug from his trembling hands. 

Thranduil was breathless and his cheeks were glowing red and Bard had never seen a more beautiful sight. His laughter was infectious and soon they were both howling and giggling until their sides cramped and their breath had run out. When Bard finally calmed himself enough to open his eyes, there were tears streaming down Thranduil's flushed face. 

He wiped his cheeks with the heel of his hand and held Bard's gaze, his eyes wet but bright and completely unguarded. He seemed younger in that moment, unburdened by the horrors the world had shown him in all his long years. Somewhere in the calmer spaces of his mind, Bard took back his earlier thought: _this_ was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he would endeavour to see it every day he remained on this earth.

His thoughts seemed to communicate themselves without his knowledge or permission, for Thranduil had leaned forward to press a light, tender kiss to his still-smiling mouth. His lips met Bard's teeth before he could think to act, but Thranduil lingered, one of his hands rising to Bard's neck and beginning to play with the ends of the messy hair that hung there. Instead of sitting up again, the Englishman brought his head to rest against Bard's shoulder, relaxing his weight into Bard's arms as they rose to accept him. 

Bard pressed his lips to the crown of Thranduil's head and combed his fingers through the gold and silver of his hair. Whatever had brought them together— whether it was by design or a happy accident, whether Bard had been made for Thranduil or whether he had simply been found to be a good fit— he felt as though every force in the universe had brought them to this point.

∞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stars are, in my mind, a sort of deity for these characters. I imagine that, in a world where soulmates are found so unpredictably, their fates must be at the whim of some unseen force. It made sense to me that this force would be the stars, beautiful and mysterious as they are. 
> 
> To give you a better idea of the timeline of this story: 
> 
> 1914: Thranduil is born  
> 1932: Thranduil turns 18  
> 1934: Thranduil and Rían meet  
> 1935: Legolas is born  
> 1940: London Blitz (Thranduil is 26, Legolas is 5)
> 
> 1980: Bard is born (Thranduil is 66)  
> 1998: Bard turns 18  
> 2015: Thranduil and Bard meet (Thranduil is 101; Bard is 35; Legolas is 79; Bard's parents are 54; GIrion is 73)


	8. Fusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil had expected he would leave shortly after they’d woken, whether by overstaying his welcome or by his own wish to be alone. Each time silence descended upon their conversation he anticipated a polite dismissal or the twinge in his gut that would urge him to seek out solitude. But their company was kept easily and as the afternoon wore on, Thranduil found himself inviting Bard over to his for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... this chapter was a little terrifying to write.  
> a special thank you to [LoveActuallyFan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/works) for her honest opinion, for encouraging my plot bunnies and for being such an awesome beta! I thought "sexy times" was the least-awkward phrase to use, but apparently it's kind of weird. so thanks for that, too :)

∞

Saturday was spent lazily. Bard put on his favourite film, a ridiculous and yet enamouring tale filled with the most absurd and likeable characters. Thranduil was not one to watch films very often, but this one left him feeling disparate and nostalgic. He liked the man who spoke very fast; he was humorous and clever. Bard laughed when he told him so.

It was not long before hunger stirred them and the promise of a shower beckoned (first Thranduil and then Bard) from the couch. Thranduil was sent to the washroom with a jumper and a fresh shirt to replace the one he'd worn to bed. Bard laughed when he returned in Bard’s clothes with a towel wrapped around his head. 

The clothing fit him poorly, he had to admit— his arms and his frame were longer and slighter than Bard’s, after all— but the shirt was soft and the jumper was exceedingly comfortable in the chill of the autumn day. He said nothing as Bard snickered from across the living room. When Bard emerged from the shower some time later, his hair was left damp and dripping slightly onto his shoulders. The sight of it made Thranduil squirm.

He’d expected he would leave shortly after they’d woken, whether by overstaying his welcome or by his own wish to be alone. Each time silence descended upon their conversation he anticipated a polite dismissal or the twinge in his gut that would urge him to seek out solitude. But their company was kept easily and as the afternoon wore on, Thranduil found himself inviting Bard over to his for dinner. 

“You mean like a date?” Bard smiled, a sly, knowing thing that made promises and insinuations and set Thranduil’s stomach in knots.

He blushed. He could feel the colour bloom on his cheeks, but he did not turn away. Instead he snorted and said, “Isn’t that a bit ridiculous?” 

“Why should it be ridiculous?” 

“Because! Because we’re— you’re—“ 

“I’m… what? What am I?” 

“Bard, don’t ask silly questions.” 

“It’s not a silly question; I want to know. What am I?” 

Such a query should not be so difficult to answer and yet Thranduil stuttered, each of his thoughts seeming more ridiculous than the last and every one of them entirely too vulnerable to speak aloud. But he could see stubbornness solidify in Bard’s jaw and in the defensive lines of his arms as they crossed over his chest. “You are the single most maddening man I’ve ever met.” 

Bard quirked his eyebrow and the corner of his mouth, but said nothing. 

Thranduil sighed, exasperated. “You… you’re like a storm: sudden and disrupting and wholly devouring. You are a far-away torch light in unfamiliar woods. The dawn after a harsh and bitter night. You are startling and magnetic and intrinsic. You terrify me.”

Bard had not been expecting such a response, he could see, and his wide eyes told Thranduil he need not say any more but he found that once he had begun he could not stop. “You have sought out and occupied spaces I did not know were empty. You are a mystery. Inexplicable. I don’t know what you are or where you came from but it feels like you’ve always been here. I’m scared to death that somehow I’ll lose you and yet I’ve no idea how to hold on to you.”

Thranduil’s breath came in heavy, short spurts that squeezed sharply in his throat. “Does that answer your silly question?” His eyes burned unpleasantly and he watched as Bard’s arms fell from his chest in favour of reaching for Thranduil’s face, his thumb brushing across his cheek and coming away wet. Thranduil frowned and closed his eyes as heat welled behind them and rose in his cheeks. His eyes remained closed as Bard’s soft lips pressed against the corner of his mouth. 

If ever he was asked, Thranduil would deny the tears. He sniffed against them, his face hot and embarrassed. When he opened his eyes Bard was close enough that the world around him had disappeared from the edges of his vision. Bard’s eyes were soft and wide and his cheeks were shadowed with dimples as his smile grew. “There now, was that so hard?” 

It took a moment for Thranduil to find the humour in Bard’s words, but then he stepped back from his soulmate and whipped him with the back of his hand. “You are terrible.” 

Bard grinned, his sharp teeth bared to the afternoon air. “Well come on! We’ve a date to go on.” 

“Truly, can it be considered a date if I’m making you dinner in my own home?” 

Bard had begun to walk toward the hallway and his bedroom but he turned back, his expression mocking and coy. “I should think so! You sir are not much more than a stranger to me by most standards. You ought to consider it a date if you hope to keep my company.” 

And with that, Bard turned away again and continued on his path from the living room, leaving Thranduil with a fierce fluttering in his belly and the hint of a smile on his lips.

∞

“You live _here_?” The pitch of Bard’s voice was high in disbelief, his jaw all but unhinged as Thranduil pulled up the drive leading to his house.

In truth, he supposed ‘house’ did undersell the reality. He’d had the house built sometime after Legolas had come of age but before his own restlessness and the lure of the great, wide world had pulled him away. 

The house had been big, even for the two of them, especially when compared to the cottage they had lived in previously— even more so when Thranduil considered the hardships they had faced when Legolas was a boy. But his father’s company had begun to thrive again under Thranduil’s watch, and he felt no qualms over putting the surplus to a good use. 

Bard’s disbelief only doubled when he was lead into the front hall and through the ground floor. Thranduil showed him the kitchen and the den, the study and the library and Bard followed mutely, staring in awe. 

Thranduil followed his gaze, trying to discern exactly what Bard saw that warranted such shock. Of course it was larger than Bard’s own apartment, but surely it was not so opulent as his reaction seemed to suggest.

Their tour came to an end in the sunroom, filled with plants and a warm glow even in the darkening sky. This was one of Thranduil’s favourite rooms when the melancholy was not too heavy, for it reminded him of his wife. The windows faced north, towards the thick of the forrest that grew untamed behind the house. Thranduil had not shared this space with anyone but his son, but having Bard there felt… right. They stood in silence a moment as the setting sun cast weak golden light over the tops of the trees in the distance.

“Are you a millionaire or something?” Bard asked while they made their way back through the house and toward the kitchen.

“I suppose,” Thranduil replied uncomfortably. 

“And am I to be a kept man?” Thranduil’s steps faltered in their rhythm, unsure how to respond. Visions of Bard lounging around his home, eating and drinking and wanting for nothing crowded in his mind. It was not an entirely unpleasant thought, but all he knew of Bard told him he was ill-suited for such a lifestyle. Bard was silent for a moment, but one look at his face told Thranduil all he needed to know. “You would go mad within a month.” 

“Aye, of that I have no doubt. I’d likely die of boredom.” Bard laughed easily and Thranduil followed behind. 

Dinner was accompanied by a bottle of Thranduil’s best wine and easy conversation. Once they finished eating they left the dining room and Thranduil lit the fire in the den. They sat together on the carpet and nursed the last of the wine. 

“Did you mean what you said before?” Bard’s eyes were downcast as he swirled his glass. He wore a jumper, deep blue and soft over top a collared shirt and dark jeans. Thranduil still wore Bard’s shirt and jumper from earlier in the day and they had both taken off their shoes somewhere between the dinner table and the fireplace.

“Yes,” Thranduil grinned. “You would surely go mad if you lived as a kept man.” Thranduil was still smiling when Bard met his eyes, though the sober look on his face told him this was not what Bard meant. 

“Did you mean it that you’re scared of me? Scared of losing me?”

Thranduil swallowed, his chest tight and his mouth suddenly dry. His voice failed him when first he tried to speak, but he managed a whisper when he tried again. “Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“I suppose… I do not know what I have done to deserve you.” Thranduil’s heart raced in the silence that followed his words and he rushed to fill it. “I worried at first that I had changed, that I was not the same man I once was, and perhaps that is true. But if I do not know what force has brought me to you, how can I know that you will not be taken away again?”

The fire shone against the high arch of Bard’s cheekbones, highlighting his sharp jaw and shadowing the straight line of his brow. In the space between one breath and the next he had put his wine down on the hardwood floor and angled himself toward Thranduil. 

Bard’s mouth was on his then, purple-stained lips meeting each other like long-lost lovers. Thranduil set his glass on the floor blindly and reached for him with numb, trembling hands as Bard rose to his knees. He gripped either side of Thranduil’s face as he swung one knee over his legs, tipping Thranduil’s chin to accommodate the change in their height. 

His voice was rough and it vibrated against Thranduil’s chest as their lips brushed against each other. “You don’t have to worry. I‘m not going anywhere.”

Thranduil opened his eyes, Bard’s face nothing but a blur, he was so close. His neck strained upwards and his hand was locked in the messy curls of Bard’s hair. “You cannot promise me that.” 

It was only a centimetre or two that separated them but Bard closed the space and kissed him, slow and soft and desperate. Thranduil’s head was spinning when he pulled away, only far enough to whisper, “Then I’ll just have to prove it to you.” 

Thranduil surged upwards to find Bard’s lips again, one arm wrapping itself around Bard’s broad shoulders as the other hand grasped at the soft wool that stretched across his back. His own spine arched upwards to bring them closer together. Bard’s mouth tasted of fine wine and rosemary when he licked his way past his pointed teeth. Bard’s nails were blunt as they scraped at Thranduil’s scalp. 

Breath came sharp and heavy through Bard’s nose, rushing over Thranduil’s cheek while his fingertips ghosted over the skin beneath Thranduil’s shirt. 

“Wait,” he pulled his mouth from Bard’s reach, only to feel lips and the point of Bard’s nose nuzzle at the skin below his jaw. Bard’s hands travelled further upwards beneath his shirt and his skin burned in their wake. “There are scars,” His words were lost in a moan as Bard moved his attention to Thranduil’s ear, his tongue and his teeth overwhelming him with the sensation. 

“I wanna see you,” Bard’s voice was close and deep and Thranduil’s breath shuddered, but he could not help but to nod. Bard’s hands pulled the shirt and the jumper off Thranduil in one smooth motion, leaving his hair to fall against the bare skin of his back. 

Thranduil reached for Bard’s lips again, hoping to drown the self-consciousness rising in his chest. Bard held him at bay with a fist held tight in his long hair and eased him down onto the carpet. Bard was at his neck again and Thranduil was grateful for the distraction as the floor pressed into his shoulder blades and the wool of Bard’s jumper scratched his bare chest. 

The rough pads of Bard’s hands started at his shoulders and skirted briefly along the insides of his arms, then moved to the sides of his ribs. Thranduil squirmed but Bard did not relent; instead he sat back on his heels and watched as his fingers moved from Thranduil’s hips to his shoulders and back, along the ugly skin that stretched down his left side.

Thranduil struggled and tried to fight off Bard’s hands, and so instead he dipped down and pressed his lips to the raised bundle of scars at the base of Thranduil’s neck. He kissed his way down the length of Thranduil’s arm and across the back of his left hand, then moved to his ribs and made his way down to the waist of Thranduil’s jeans. His sensation was dulled, but it was enough. Thranduil sighed and whimpered and cried out at the touch. 

Bard nipped at Thranduil’s hip, his teeth catching on the scars that stretched over the bone each time Thranduil breathed in. 

“Bard,” Thranduil’s voice was breathy and needy and he might have been ashamed of it had his mind not been so clouded by their proximity and the hands that now grasped his hips, the thumbs that tucked into the empty belt loops on his jeans and pulled lightly.

Thranduil reached for Bard’s hair and pulled him upwards, but he had no chance to speak once Bard found his lips again. He pushed at Bard’s shoulders, though he wanted nothing more than to continue kissing. “I don’t— ahhh!” Bard bit down on the skin above his collarbone and Thranduil was distracted once more by the lips that closed over his. 

Bard moved to the skin that stretched over Thranduil’s jaw so that Thranduil might speak, but he could only breathe heavily as Bard’s teeth teased the space beneath his ear. “Hmmm?” Bard hummed against his neck and Thranduil fought to find his way back to his thoughts. 

“I— oh! You’re so unfair! It’s been a long time since— since I…” 

Bard pulled away, his pupils blown wide even as his face had grown serious. “How long?” 

Thranduil breathed, tried to ready himself for Bard’s inevitable shock and rejection. His voice was low, heavy with what might have been shame, if he'd the time to examine it more closely. “Over seventy-five years.” 

Bard sat up, his brow furrowed and his lips raw from all their affections. “Since—” 

Thranduil nodded, not wanting to hear Bard say the words, not wanting to spoil their evening any more than it had been spoiled already. 

“Why?” Bard was frowning still, but his eyes were soft and his hands were at Thranduil’s waist, his fingertips pressing small circles into his skin. 

“I’ve… never wanted to.” 

Bard looked at him, his hair falling forward into his face and the muscles in his throat moving thickly as he swallowed. “Do you want to now?” 

Thranduil sat up so that he could reach Bard again, and he pressed his lips against the corner of Bard’s mouth, the soft stubble there scratching his chin and tickling his cheek as he kissed him in earnest. He opened his eyes to see Bard watching him, his dark brows heavy and shadowed. 

“Yes,” he whispered. “But I don’t have any—“ Bard’s arms were around him in an instant, wide hands splaying over the skin of his back and his lips smiling as he tipped Thranduil’s chin upwards so that he could kiss him again. 

“That’s alright,” Bard’s voice was rough and trembling with hints of laughter. “I do.” 

Thranduil laughed and smacked Bard’s chest. “You’re terrible!” 

Bard laughed again, pulled away and stood, reaching for Thranduil’s hand and pulling him to his feet. Thranduil was dizzy and his fingers were numb as he led the way upstairs. “This is the spare bedroom,” He said, half-heartedly continuing the tour of the house he’d begun earlier in the night. “And this is Legolas’s room, when he comes home—“ 

Bard backed him against the wall then, his eyes dark and his voice low when he asked, “Do you sleep in either of these rooms?” Thranduil shook his head, well aware of his own teasing as Bard pressed against his chest. “Then I do not care to see them tonight.” 

Thranduil smirked and took hold of Bard’s hand, leading him to the end of the hall. He opened the door to his bedroom, feeling shy as he flipped the switch that would turn on the lamps on either side of the bed. 

Bard came to stand behind him, his mouth brushing the uneven scars where they spread over his shoulder blade. No one had ever seen them beyond the traces on his neck and his face. Even those marks were enough to make lookers-on blanch in disgust or pity, but not this man. Bard had seen the worst of him and yet he still pressed his lips to the neglected skin, curled his hands around Thranduil’s hips and pulled him closer, as though the contact they shared already was not enough. 

But Thranduil knew it wasn’t— he turned to face Bard and let his hands slide beneath Bard’s shirt and jumper to find more smooth skin and the dimples at the backs of his hips. He pushed the wool and cotton up and over Bard’s head and let his mouth wander from freckle to muscle to tendon, kissing and licking and biting lightly at his collarbones and the strong lines of his chest. 

Bard’s bare arms wrapped around him, his hands gripping his waist as he hummed, though from where Thranduil was pressed against his sternum it felt more like a growl. He grinned against Bard’s skin and bit lightly at his ribs and oh, _that_ was definitely a growl. 

Bard pulled away and pushed Thranduil towards the bed, looking on hungrily as he bounced when his back met the duvet. Thranduil rose to his elbows as Bard followed him to the bed and attacked his neck and his lips.

Thranduil hissed and gripped Bard’s hips, pulling him closer and working at the button and zipper of his jeans. Heat followed behind Bard’s hands and mouth as they covered Thranduil’s exposed skin. Thranduil gripped Bard’s back and used his feet to push Bard’s jeans and pants down his legs while he struggled out of his own clothes. 

He cried out when Bard’s mouth closed around him, let his hands grip the hair at the base of Bard’s neck while he lavished him with affection. When Bard pulled away, towards his discarded jeans, Thranduil pushed himself up against the pillows of his bed. Bard returned and climbed over him, lifting Thranduil’s hips and letting his hands search him.

Never in his life had he felt anything like the warmth of Bard’s mouth or the sharp prodding of his fingers. He was breathless when Bard pressed into him— senseless and searching for purchase against Bard’s shoulders with his hands and with his teeth. Bard moaned and urged his hips faster, chasing Thranduil’s mouth with his own as he pushed and pulled and gripped Thranduil’s skin with his fingernails.

He whispered terrible, beautiful words in his ear and Thranduil buried his face in Bard’s hair, frenzied and breathless and begging for more— more of his skin, more of his whispered promises. More of the fire that sought out and seared all his hesitance and all his imperfections and drove him higher, faster, sent him careening toward a fevered, shouting climax.

When Thranduil opened his eyes, it was to see Bard lying beside him on his bed, the light from the lamp haloed around his tangled hair and a tired smile upon his lips. Thranduil curled against him, revelling in the warmth of his soulmate and, perhaps for the first time, uncaring of how or why he had been given this second chance. Instead, he fell asleep against Bard’s chest and dreamt of dark eyes, curly hair and starlit skies.

∞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know, sexy times seems like a fine phrase to use! it's obvious without being too graphic or too immature. don't you think? no?? ugh. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com), and I've been tagging some [inspiration](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/inexplicable) for this story if you care to look :)


	9. Frivolity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was late on Sunday morning when Bard awoke with Thranduil’s chin tucked into his shoulder. He’d never been one to stay in bed, but he could not think of a single thing he would rather do— not with warm breath tickling sweetly at his throat. And so he stayed that way, one arm beneath Thranduil’s pillow and the other combing gently through the mess of his bed head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is especially for [LoveActuallyFan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan). she made [not one](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/post/129081496758/mechanicbard-bard-the-bowman-as-mechanicbard) but [not two](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/post/129159374243/ceothranduil-thranduil-oropherion-as), but [THREE](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/post/129171307333/thranduil-in-bards-jumper-thranduil-oropherion-as) fantastic pieces of art inspired by this story! she's [therepressedcreative](http://therepressedcreative.tumblr.com) on tumblr and her art blog [plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com).
> 
> send her lots and lots of love, because she deserves it!

  
[](https://imgur.com/thazHoR)[](https://imgur.com/OFC31MB)[](https://imgur.com/vieIlWM)

∞

It was late on Sunday morning when Bard awoke with Thranduil’s chin tucked into his shoulder. He’d never been one to stay in bed, but he could not think of a single thing he would rather do— not with warm breath tickling sweetly at his throat. And so he stayed that way, one arm beneath Thranduil’s pillow and the other combing gently through the mess of his bed head.

He might not ever admit it, but he took the opportunity to study Thranduil’s scars more closely. He traced the peaks and falls like mountain ranges with his fingers, followed the patterns that wrapped around his hip, the branches that stretched up his ribs, furling and unfurling all down his long arm. They were finer where they crept up his neck and along his jaw, smoother along the back of his hand, delicate in the shadow of his cheek; like the hairline fractals of frost on glass. 

Though he'd showered these places with affections and promises the night before, flashes of death and ruin now rose unbidden to his mind. He wondered how anyone could survive such a thing, wondered if he himself would have had the strength, or even the will to do so. He didn't think he would. The thought sat harsh and cold in the pit of his stomach.

He placed kisses on his Englishman's shoulder as recompense, hoping these small tokens might quell the harsh memories of fire and soothe the pain it had left behind. He breathed deep the smell of sleep and forest trees and home, ignored the phantom stench of char and ash and thanked the stars for whatever forces in this world had conspired to bring them together.

Thranduil began to stir before long; small twitches of his feet where they were tangled with Bard’s legs; a slight tip of his head that rubbed his nose against his throat; a gentle, unconscious frown he could feel but could not see. The duvet had fallen from their shoulders and Thranduil curled closer to Bard’s chest, tucking his hand between them, unconsciously seeking out the warmth. Bard’s heart thrilled at these tiny motions and he buried his smile in the silk and starlight of Thranduil’s hair. 

Thranduil woke with an arch of his spine and a hoarse moan as Bard traced his tongue around the sharp shell of his ear, remembering the response it had drawn from him the night before.

“Good morning,” Bard’s voice was still thick from sleep and he could feel more than hear Thranduil's groggy hum. 

Now that they were both awake, Bard saw no reason they should stay in bed. He rose and reached for Thranduil, laughing when he sighed dramatically and clung to the edges of the duvet. But Bard's stubbornness rivalled even Thranduil's and finally, he gave up his place beneath the feather down and clung to Bard instead. He wrapped his arms around his neck as they stood beneath the warm spray of the shower, leaned heavily against him while Bard lathered them with soap and shampooed Thranduil’s hair.

He let his hands wander over the curve of Thranduil’s spine and lower, until the Englishman cursed in his ear. “I am too old for this.” But his eyes were bright and wide and they belied his protests and so Bard continued.

“Better to do it now, then,” he laughed. “After all, you’re only getting older.” Thranduil answered with an undignified pout and Bard could not help but to kiss him. 

“Your breath is horrible,” Thranduil mumbled against his lips. Bard kissed him again and snuck his tongue past the Englishman’s teeth.

"So is yours." He revelled in the scratch of Thranduil's nails against his hairline.

∞

They were in the shower until the water began to run cold. Thranduil threw a pair of bottoms and a T-shirt at Bard, dressed himself similarly and then pulled him back towards the bed. He then burrowed himself beneath the covers and petulantly refused to leave. Bard laughed when he whined— though Thranduil denied all his accusations vehemently— and joined him without further complaint.

Bard lay on his back and the Englishman made himself small against his side, lay his head on Bard's chest and draped his long leg across Bard's lap. Thranduil traced imaginary patterns across his chest, much the same way Bard had across Thranduil’s scars earlier.

Bard recalled stories from his childhood, of his folks and their small lakeside town, of his job piloting the ferry to the distant shore and back again. He spoke of his travels and the adventures he'd had— pointed out the scar leftover from his close encounter with a Komodo Dragon when he was twenty-three. 

Thranduil grew still and clutched lightly at Bard’s chest as he recounted his trek through the forest on the island of Padar. But he could not contain his laughter when Bard confessed that his injury, while dramatic, had been less than impressive. He had waded foolishly into a shallow river, seen the dragon in the water and slipped on the rocks as he'd turned to run. His thigh had bled all the way back to the village on the far side of the island. 

Thranduil laughed and carried on and Bard grumbled, "This is why I don't tell the real story!" 

"I can see why!" Thranduil wiped tears from his blue eye— the left remained dry— "After all, you must protect your dignity, Dragonslayer." 

"I hate you," Bard joked, shaking his head in the face of Thranduil's mirth. 

"Do you, _Dragonslayer_?”

Bard silenced the Englishman's laughter with two harsh handfuls of his bum. He nuzzled his way close to Thranduil's ear and growled, dragging his teeth along the shell and relishing the answering gasp and the hot breath that fogged his neck.

“Unfair,” Thranduil’s voice was breathy and preoccupied. “You can’t just… whenever you don’t like…”

“When I don’t like what, love?” Bard whispered, his lips brushing Thranduil’s ear with each word.

“Not fair,” Thranduil whined. He _did_ whine, and Bard would fight his protests a hundred times.

“I think it’s completely fair.” Bard smiled. “If you’re going to hold his over my head it’s only right I have something to hold over yours.” Once he considered the Englishman's slight repaid, he stretched his arms above his head and pressed a chaste kiss to the crown of Thranduil’s head.

Thranduil huffed as Bard leaned back on the soft pillows and told the story of how he once had snuck some stowaways ashore in barrels of fish on the ferry. He could feel the heat of Thranduil's glare on him, but in time he shuffled beneath his sheets and settled comfortably against Bard again, his head resting on his shoulder and his leg returning to hook over Bard's body.

The remainder of the day was quiet: the time passed with easy affections and soft smiles. Bard made them tea in the afternoon, and later, answered the door to retrieve the Indian food Thranduil had ordered for supper. But for all the Englishman’s reluctance to leave, there were apparently _rules_ about bringing food to bed. Bard closed the the front door only to find Thranduil on the couch with plates and utensils already laid out on the coffee table. 

He had pulled on Bard's jumper somewhere between the bedroom and the living room and his hair was frizzed with static. Bard reached to smooth it down and Thranduil pulled the blanket from the back of the couch to drape over their laps. 

When night fell they returned to bed once more. Any conversation was overtaken by breathy exclamations and harsh whispers as Thranduil demanded repayment for Bard’s _unfair treatment_. He searched and sought out all Bard's weakest points; exploited them and left him red with memories of his lips and his teeth.

∞

Monday morning arrived far too soon. As much as Bard wanted to call in, he felt he should make up for his distracted behaviour the previous week. Thranduil said he too had duties that could no longer be ignored. Bard wondered what exactly the CEO of an energy company _did_ , but he held his questions for another time.

“Where’s my jumper?” Bard called across the room to where he could see Thranduil adjusting his tie in front of a full-length mirror. He had braided his hair intricately and let it drape over his shoulder and the effect was decidedly less feminine than Bard would have thought possible. He was all long, lean lines in his black slacks, a silk tie and deep charcoal shirt. The sight made Bard’s fingers itch and his mouth water. 

He crossed the room and stood behind his Englishman, pressed his chest against the warmth of his back and let his hands glide across his waist. He stood on his toes to rest his chin atop Thranduil’s shoulder.

"I spilled curry on it. I'll wash it." Thranduil's attention flicked to Bard in the mirror before he went back to adjusting his tie. 

Something was... different. It took a moment for Bard to realize that it was his eye; He hadn't seen Thranduil wearing his contact all weekend and the sight of it now was strangely upsetting. Maybe it was all in Bard's imagination, but it seemed as though Thranduil's whole countenance had changed. His affections were far from the surface, his smile was smaller, his back was stiff and his movements were clipped and precise. 

"Are you alright?" Bard's voice was soft and fragile and Thranduil met his gaze in the mirror.

Of course Bard understood that Thranduil could not show the rest of the world the same softness he had been shown. He understood such a thing would be perceived as weakness and that he would suffer for it— but witnessing the change in his soulmate's demeanour left him feeling more than a little lost. 

"A bit tired, perhaps. You are exhausting." The Englishman turned to rest his forehead against Bards. The gentle kiss he placed there was all the reassurance Bard needed. 

He smiled against the spot where Thranduil's collar folded around his neck. "I suppose I’ll accept that blame.” 

All too soon, their time together came to an end. They pulled up to Girion's garage with less than a minute before he was expected to start work. It seemed Thranduil had none of the same obligations Bard did, however, and he found himself pulled back into the car just as he'd pushed the door open. 

Thranduil’s proximity was dizzying in the closeness of the car, with his hand around the collar of Bard's coat and his lips soft and insistent against his. The heat rising in Bard’s cheeks was countered only by the crisp breeze coming in from the open door. 

"When can I see you again?" Bard sounded desperate but he didn't care— he _was_ desperate. He hadn’t yet been separated from the man and already he longed to have him back. He craved Thranduil's touch like he craved air in his lungs and damn if he was going to let anything get in the way of him having it. 

"Thranduil!" His grandda’s voice came from the mouth of the garage and Bard's heart surged in his chest. "Something wrong with that car of yours again?" Bard could see him coming closer, friendly concern etched in his raised brows and the slight shake of his head. 

Girion walked round the far side of the car toward the driver's window and ducked his head. Thranduil had just let go of Bard's coat, had left him leaning in close with a blush high on his cheeks when he rolled the window down. 

"Bard," Girion thought to hide his shock only after he'd left his jaw hanging open. 

The three of them sat in silence for half a beat too long before Thranduil said, “Well, I should be off.” 

"I'll call you," Bard promised before stepping out of the car. 

Girion followed him as he crossed to the garage, confronting him only once Thranduil’s car had driven down the road. "What're you thinking, boy?"

"Grandda, I—"

“You should know better'n this!" 

Fury sparked in Bard's chest, fast-burning and irrational. “Know better than _what_?” 

“Than to get involved with— with Thranduil of all people! He’s lost his love once, lad! A heart can only take so much breaking before it’s done for! It’s cruel, what you’re doing.” 

"What?" Bard frowned, accosted.

“And don’t try and tell me this is some no-strings nonsense. You’re both fools if you think you can keep each other’s company without getting invested. How do you think he’s gonna feel when you up and leave one day?” Girion was waving his hands wildly, ranting and not even seeing what must have been utter bewilderment on Bard’s face.

“I’m not going to leave him,” The very idea sent sharp pains radiating from Bard’s ribs.

“Don’t be silly lad, 'course you will!” Girion carried on, his brow furrowed and his cheeks puffy. “Everything will change when you meet your soulmate! He ought to know better— honestly! He’s setting himself up for trouble and heartbreak— you both are!”

“Grandda! Stop! ”  
Girion turned to him then, ready to continue his tirade until he met Bard's eyes. They stood for a moment, the silence weighted, and Bard could do nothing besides shrug. “I was going to tell you,” 

“Tell me what, lad? What’re you saying?” 

“I’m saying I…” Confessions collected in Bard’s throat, though the man they were meant fore was not there to receive them. His heart leapt in anticipation of the words as he spoke them. “Thranduil is my soulmate.”

∞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the fluff as much as I did! next chapter we start getting into the thick of the plot..


	10. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday passed in a blur of last-minute crisis solving, overdue telephone calls and rescheduled meetings. It was past noontime and Thranduil found himself in one such meeting, looking on as it quickly devolved into a bickering match amongst his employees. He tried half-heartedly for several minutes but he could not focus; his mind was in a haze and his eyelids were heavy. His mobile vibrated in his hands and a chill rose on his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to draw your attention to the [FOUR](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/post/129219490073/inexplicable-inspired-art-series-of-pieces-for) incredible drawings inspired by this series. [LoveActuallyFan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/pseuds/LoveActuallyFan) has not only spoiled me with beautiful art, fantastic feedback and inspiration, but she's become a dear friend, as well. <3
> 
> please don't hate me too much.

∞

Monday passed in a blur of last-minute crisis solving, overdue telephone calls and rescheduled meetings. It was past noontime and Thranduil found himself in one such meeting, looking on as it quickly devolved into a bickering match amongst his employees. He tried half-heartedly for several minutes but he could not focus; his mind was in a haze and his eyelids were heavy. His mobile vibrated in his hands and a chill rose on his skin.

 _”think you could sneak away for lunch?”_  
from: Bard

Thranduil smiled and tapped out his reply before standing from his chair at the head of the conference table. “Galion, just buy a dishwasher for the lounge if it bothers you so badly. That’s enough for now; we’re breaking for lunch.” Before any of his staff could question it, he had left the conference room and was pulling his coat on over his jacket and tying his scarf around his neck.  
 The weather had become particularly cold while he and Bard had hidden away over the weekend and he longed for the warmth of Bard’s proximity and his own bedsheets. He climbed into his car and set the heater to high as he pulled from the parking garage and through the city. 

Bard strode toward the car with a broad smile on his face once Thranduil pulled to a stop outside the garage. He slid into the passenger’s seat and immediately leaned over the centre console to steal a kiss from Thranduil’s lips. 

“Your message could not have come at a better time,” Thranduil smiled as Bard kissed him again. “I was forced to listen to my staff argue over washing their dishes.” 

“Are your staff children?” Bard’s laugh tickled Thranduil’s fingers where they had come to rest against his throat. 

“I wonder sometimes,” He drew back but Bard’s sharp teeth caught his bottom lip and pulled him close again. Thranduil sighed and tipped his head, eager and giddy like a teenager. His mind could not find a word to adequately describe the lightness in his chest, the tingle in his fingers and the blush that seemed to have taken up permanent residence on his cheeks. Regardless of what it was called, Thranduil found he quite liked it. 

Soon their kiss grew heated and careless and loud. The morning hours had been long and trying and Thranduil was quite happy to become reacquainted with the scratch of Bard’s stubble and the smell of his skin and the taste of his mouth. Their lungs were filled with gasps and shared air; their hands full of coat collars and scarves and locks of hair until Thranduil had forgotten his surroundings and knocked his elbow into the horn. 

They flew apart, breathless from their exertion and laughing in their shock. When he turned to put the car in gear he caught sight of Girion inside the garage, elbow-deep in an engine and staring at Thranduil with wide eyes. 

He waved to the old man— a hesitant, embarrassed flick of his wrist. “Your grandfather is staring at us.” 

Bard turned to look out the window as Thranduil reversed and pulled the car onto the road. “Don’t mind him; he’s still reeling a bit, I suspect.” 

“Reeling?” Thranduil frowned and turned towards the city. 

“He thought I’d lost the plot when he saw us this morning. Kept going on about how we were only setting ourselves up for heartbreak, that it was cruel of me to start something with you knowing how it would end.” 

“How is that?” 

“With me finding my soulmate,” Bard laughed, and Thranduil answered with his own weak chuckle. “But don’t worry, I took care of all the finer details.” 

His mind was in a flurry, jumping from one aborted thought to the next. How strange it must be for Girion, that his grandson had found his match in a man older than he was— what he must think of Bard, to think he would play such games— how surprised his friend must have been to hear the news— how he should have told Girion himself— how he might have been correct in spite of his misconception— that all good things must come to an end— that such happiness was taken at great risk—

But Bard’s laugh was warm and Thranduil knew that this was worth the risk. Bard’s hand was soft against his knee and it chased away the first hints of bitterness that had crept into the creases of Thranduil’s brow. “Stars, it’s hot in here,”

“It is cold outside,” Thranduil’s voice sounded distant in his ears and he shook his head, trying to chase away the fog that had settled over him.

“It’s barely ten degrees!” Bard reached for the dials on the dash and opened the window to let in the autumn breeze. It helped to clear Thranduil’s mind, but left his joints stiff and his shoulders tight. 

Lunch was a pleasant change from the monotony of returning to work and Bard’s presence helped to centre him: the pads of his fingers were like hot coals and Thranduil’s blood surged where they met the skin on the back of his hand. Thranduil clutched his fork as the toe of Bard’s boot traced a line up his shin. Bard’s smile was cheeky and sharp, his eyes pressing a heavy weight against Thranduil’s mouth.

These points of contact were lost all at once when the waiter appeared suddenly and Thranduil was left feeling ungrounded and dizzy as their plates were cleared. He breathed deeply through his nose, focused on the clink of silverware and the smell of coffee and the feel of the rough serviette as he placed it on the table.

Too soon he was back at the office, attending meeting after meeting and signing the endless stream of documents Tauriel presented to him. He endured them all with grace and patience learned after decades of practice, but his thoughts were of Bard. He sat through conference calls, reviewed statistics and reports, but his focus was on the remembered pressure of his soulmate’s fingers against his knee, the slight swelling leftover from Bard’s teeth on his lip and the phantom tickle of Bard’s hair against his palm.

He felt badly that he was so distracted after being away the previous week, but he was groggy and his attention was fleeting and he found himself sending messages to Bard during business calls and beneath the conference table. For all his effort, there was yet more work to be done when the clock struck five and his staff left the rest of the floor dark and empty.  
 Tauriel knocked on the door of his office, though it was left ajar and he would not have begrudged her simply inviting herself in. “Is there anything you need before I leave?”  
 Thranduil sighed heavily and pressed his fingers to his temple. “I think, Tauriel, I am getting too old for all this.” 

“Sir?” 

“It’s after business hours and you’ve known me long enough to call me by my name.”

“Very well, Thranduil.” Tauriel smiled softly. “Can I ask, are you alright? You don’t seem yourself today.” 

Thranduil sighed again and slouched in his chair, closing his eyes and allowing the weariness he felt to wash over him. “Something… has happened.” Tauriel stepped further into his office, dropped her coat over one of the visitor chairs and leaned against it as she waited for him to continue.

The curiosity of Tauriel’s gaze set his heart racing nervously as he contemplated his next words. “I’ve met someone.” A smile broke through her concerned frown and so he continued, his nerves worn and frayed and buzzing with the thrill of what he was about to share. “And I never would have thought it possible, but… I…“ 

Tauriel smiled brightly and her eyes sparked with glee. “You are in love!” 

“Tauriel—“ 

“No, you are! You’ve been distracted all day and you took a long lunch and— oh, Thranduil I’m so happy for you! After all this time!” 

Thranduil pushed past his uncertainty, set her words aside so that he might dwell upon them later. “You don’t think me… traitorous? Unfaithful?” He grimaced, glad to share his worries at last but embarrassed at how silly they seemed now that he had given voice to them.

Tauriel shook her head, her long red hair whipping the air gracefully. “No one could accuse you of being anything less than devoted and respectful. But it has been so long, surely your wife would not want you to be unhappy forever.” 

Thranduil held tightly to these words, for they were vindication and acceptance and he wanted so badly to believe them. He smiled, though weariness pulled again at the lids of his eyes and the curve of his shoulders. His voice was not much more than a whisper, but he had found that the most honest words were often spoken quietly. “Thank you,”

∞

When at last Thranduil returned home, the sky was dark and the air was bitter with cold. The drive had been treacherous, as the hum of tires against asphalt had nearly lulled him to sleep more than once. He had rolled the windows down with the hope that the chill would keep him awake, but it left him tremouring and aching and slow.

He wore his coat through the house, removing it only when he stripped off his clothes in favour of a hot shower. But his legs were weak and his head was heavy and he could only stand for a few minutes, numb even as the water turned his skin pink. 

He shuffled across the bedroom floor, pulled on a shirt and a pair of flannel bottoms with great difficulty, and fell into bed. 

_Growing old_ , he mused, _was hell_.

∞

The next morning broke grey and dim, and it made leaving the warmth of his bed all the more difficult. Thranduil’s joints were stiff and his muscles were weak, but his alarm was loud and insistent and he was running late already.

He drove to work in the rain, shivering and aching but drowsy still, and so he did not turn the heat on. Moisture in the air condensed on his skin and coalesced in his lungs and by the time he reached the office he was so weary, he would not have driven home again even if he had excused himself from work. 

His staff said little to him throughout the morning, though they passed confused looks and concerned words amongst themselves when they thought he would not notice. Tauriel found him in his office with his elbows on his desk and his head hanging heavy in his hands. 

“Sir?” Thranduil could not bring himself to respond, only to listen as the door was closed and Tauriel rounded his desk to stand beside him. “Thranduil, are you alright? Has something happened?” 

He shook his head slowly, the motion stiff and pained. 

“Stars, you’re burning up!” Her hands were icy against the skin of his wrist and it was shock enough to call his attention to the way his clothes stuck to his skin and his hair was wet against his neck. He breathed deliberately and lifted his head, squinting at the fluorescent light of his office to see the worry and the panic in Tauriel’s eyes. “And you’re pale! Why did you not say something?” 

Thranduil made to reply— was it not obvious?— but the thought was lost amongst the slow churning in his head. “You should go home. I’ll have Feren drive you.” He stood, slow and unsteady and leaning heavily against Tauriel.

Standing upright served only to make him dizzy. He made to walk out of the office but his legs were fatigued and he took only half a step before they buckled. 

Tauriel caught him beneath the arms with no small amount of difficulty, cursing as she helped him to the floor. His hands and his legs were numb and his vision was filled with spots and his only thought was that he had never experienced anything quite like this.

Tauriel’s voice was dampened by the ringing in his ears but he recognized the panic in her words. His mouth was filled with cotton and his throat was hoarse and dry, but what little focus he could muster was focused on forming two words: 

Call Bard.

∞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for reading, and for your lovely comments. I've got such lovely readers and I'm so grateful. you all make this wild ride worth it <3


	11. Futility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If something had happened to his Englishman, Bard would never forgive him. He would never forgive himself. All had not been well at lunch the day before— he’d _known_ it and yet he had let Thranduil go, trusting that if something were wrong he would say so. The last time he’d heard from his soulmate had been the night before, to say that he’d be at the office late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... just... try not to hate me too much.

∞

If something had happened to his Englishman, Bard would never forgive him. He would never forgive himself. All had not been well at lunch the day before— he’d _known_ it and yet he had let Thranduil go, trusting that if something were wrong he would say so. The last time he’d heard from his soulmate had been the night before, to say that he’d be at the office late. 

But Bard had woken up that morning in a cold sweat and immediately he knew. All his calls had gone unanswered and Thranduil hadn’t replied to any text messages, leaving Bard with a headache and a knot of anxiety in his stomach that would not be consoled. All morning Girion had scolded Bard for his distracted behaviour and eventually shooed him away from any engines or flammable substances and told him to mind the phones. 

Sometime past eleven that morning, Bard’s mobile rang in his pocket with Thranduil’s number flashing on his screen. He answered the call with a frown on his face, relief in his stomach and an argument on his tongue, but it was not his Englishman on the other end. 

Her name was Tauriel, she said. “It’s Mist— it’s Thranduil. He needs you; please come quickly.” The call disconnected and Bard leapt from his chair and pulled Alfrid harshly along by the hem of his coat towards the old shop truck. 

“Get in. Come on, now!” Alfrid complained loudly, but eventually pulled himself into the passenger’s seat. 

Bard had been in such a hurry he hadn’t said a word to his grandda before reversing the car out of the lot and screeching off. Alfrid whined the whole way but Bard paid him no mind. He sped through traffic and took corners too sharply and he arrived at the entrance to Greenwood Energy without really knowing how he’d gotten there. 

Alfrid shouted at him through the open window but he didn’t bother answering; he would leave soon regardless of Bard’s instruction.

Once inside, he followed an escort through the office building, unseeing and focusing on nothing but the panic that itched at his brain and licked at his heels. His escort— the man had offered his name but Bard hadn’t heard— was rushing though the maze of corridors with his hair whipping behind him. Bard was glad for it, for he was practically bursting from his skin with the urge to run, but the other man’s haste only fuelled his dread. 

Finally they came to a stop. The man turned to him— perhaps to prepare himself, perhaps as a warning— and pushed the door open. There was a woman with long red hair and worried eyes kneeling at the far corner of a grand oak desk. She did not stand when he entered, but she rose to a crouch and shuffled aside. Bard stepped forward, terrible images rising through his panic, and crossed the expanse of hardwood. 

What he saw was his soulmate, dressed poorly, at least by his own standards. His jacket was rumpled and his slacks were wrinkled. His shirt was dark with moisture and he wore no tie, but these details fell away at the sight of Thranduil’s pale and sweaty face. 

Bard fell heavily to his knees, feeling but not acknowledging the pain that shot through his legs as they cracked against the floor. He reached for his Englishman, unprepared for the shock of his balmy skin and the rattle of his breath as it wheezed through his nose. “Thranduil?” 

His eyes fluttered but remained closed as an arid, strangled noise hung in the stagnant air. Bard looked to Tauriel for an explanation, but she could not tell him what he wanted to know. “I found him not twenty minutes ago. I was going to have Feren drive him home but he could not walk. He is worse already— he refused to let me call an ambulance; he asked only for you.” 

“Stubborn prat.” Bard muttered, his panic fizzing out slightly now that he had his soulmate near, frustration and dread rising in its stead. “Do you know where he parked his car?” Tauriel nodded and stood to retrieve Thranduil’s keys from his desk. “Good. I’ll need you to lead the way out and open the doors.” 

She was quick to her feet and out calling orders through the hall while Bard ran his hand along his soulmate’s damp hair and over his cheek, trying to rouse him. 

“Hey love, I’m here.” Thranduil’s eyelids fluttered again and so he kept on, took his jaw between both hands and brushed his thumbs across his cheekbones. 

The Englishman’s eyes were glassy when they finally opened, and his lips moved to form a breathy word: “Dragonslayer,” 

“Yeah,” Bard could not help the smile that broke on his face in spite of the name. “Yeah, I’m here. Listen, we’ve got to get you to a doctor.” 

Thranduil’s eyes fell closed and a small whine came from his throat and Bard laughed in spite of himself. “You’re going and that’s final. But I need you to hold on to me, love. Can you do that?” Thranduil dipped his head slightly, the muscles and tendons in his throat flexing slowly as he swallowed.

“There you go, just hold on here, alright?” Bard raised the Englishman’s arms to wrap around his neck, braced himself with one foot, hooked his arms around Thranduil’s waist and beneath his knees. With a grunt and a deep breath he was on his feet, the motion startling Thranduil enough that he grasped weakly to Bard’s shoulders and leaned his forehead heavily against his chest.

 Tauriel was at the door and she led them to the elevator and through the lower levels. Bard’s arms only tightened around Thranduil when he began trembling, murmured reassurances when Thranduil’s grip slackened. They came to a stop beside Thranduil’s car and Tauriel opened the passenger door. Bard eased his charge gently inside before pressing a kiss to his sweaty forehead and fastening his seat belt. 

He closed the door gently and turned to grasp Tauriel’s hands. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for calling.” 

She gave him Thranduil’s keys. “Take care of him.” 

He nodded solemnly before climbing into the driver’s seat and starting the engine. 

Thranduil’s eyes were open but his gaze was bleary and unseeing. His breath was irregular, small sounds scratching from his throat while his hands twitched slightly. “Hey, you’re alright,” Bard shifted the car into drive and grasped his Englishman’s hand, pressing a kiss to the feverish skin as he pulled out of the car park. 

He drove quickly through the city, never letting go of Thranduil’s hand. He urged the car faster as he pulled onto the freeway, quickly gaining speed until the car shuddered and coughed— the engine dead— leaving them to coast onto the shoulder. 

Bard cursed, fury rising in his throat and rage hissing through his clenched teeth. He tried turning the key in the ignition and, when nothing happened, smacked the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “For fuck’s sake! This is why I never bloody drive!” 

He pulled his mobile from his coat pocket and dialled 999, gave the operator their location and stepped out onto the tarmac. He hurried round the car and pulled Thranduil’s door open to find him taking short and panicked breaths, his eyes closed but darting back and forth and his lips moving in unspoken words.

Bard didn’t ask what he was trying to say or what images his fevered mind had conjured, for the terror that sang in Thranduil’s chest had permeated his own. Imaginations of dragons and bloodshed flashed hot and bright before him as he reached for Thranduil’s hand again. 

“Shhh,” He soothed, worried his own frustration had worsened Thranduil’s turmoil. He kissed his Englishman’s hand and ran his fingers through the sweaty ropes of his hair, perhaps in an attempt to calm his own heart as much as his soulmate's. “I’ve got you, help is almost here.” 

And help was almost there, for as Bard spoke he could hear sirens approaching in the distance. When the ambulance was closer he stood and waved, watched it pull onto the shoulder behind them. He crouched to unbuckle Thranduil’s seat belt and stepped back to allow the paramedics to pull him from the car. 

He answered their questions as best he could. Some he could give with surety: How old is the patient? “He’s a hundred and one.” What is your relation to him? “I’m his soulmate.” Others, he was less sure about: Does he have any allergies? How long has he been like this? Does he have any medical history?

Bard stuttered and climbed into the ambulance before offering a weak confession: “We only found each other a week ago.” He did not tell them of all the time they had spent apart during that week— truly, they’d had so little time to get to know one another— and hoped his explanation might curb their questions. 

He looked on in silence as the paramedics measured Thranduil’s temperature—stars, almost 40— and his heart rate— he assumed 150 was quite high, and the same of his blood pressure. They shined a light in his eyes and spoke amongst themselves, used words Bard did not recognize or understand. They worked in tandem to gain IV access and hang a litre of cool fluids— and then another once the first had run through the line and into Thranduil’s arm. 

It was a short ride, though it seemed forever to Bard as he sat in silence while they worked, holding tightly to his Englishman’s hand as they rushed toward the hospital. 

Soon he found himself in a crowded waiting room, standing still and feeling nothing besides the heated terror that raged on behind his soulmate’s closed eyes. He could not say how long he stayed this way, at the centre of a wide and frenzied storm. Strangers rushed past him, brushing his shoulders and catching loose strands of his hair in their wind. Children screamed, men shouted and women wept, the sounds coalescing and raising in volume until it was all one indistinct and never-ending crack of thunder that rang in Bard’s ears.

He stood, shuddering with the effort it took to force air into his lungs, feeling brittle even as he bent and swayed with the flow of activity. Soon enough he found himself pacing, his own motion blending seamlessly into the chaos. They were the same, after all— waiting for news, for their loved one to be returned to them— and that made Bard no different from any of them. 

It was like a dance; each time the doors would swing open, the commotion would stop. The screams and the tears would stem and the whispers would die down and they would all watch, beg the stars that news had come of their father, their daughter, their soulmate. But they would all despair as the news was delivered to another, and resume their wringing hands and tapping feet and their pacing. 

Bard walked the line of decorative tile that spanned the length of the waiting room. He worried his teeth at the skin on the inside of his thumbnail and he stared at the doors Thranduil had disappeared through. 

More than once his mind tricked him. He would look up from the floor to see a flash of blond hair, only to realize it was the mother across the room standing to nag the admissions desk or fetch water for her children. 

He resented that woman in those moments. But then her children would ask her a question and the expression on her face was so broken and felt so familiar, her children so lost and so afraid that Bard found he could do nothing but hope their family remained intact at the end of the day. 

It was the same with the tall man in the suit; he paced in wide, oblong laps and Bard would catch a glimpse of him as he moved. His heart would jolt and urge him toward the man— only for the weight of waiting and not knowing to settle heavily between his ribs again.

Time was different here, he thought, and he could not tell how long he had been waiting. At one point he sank into an uncomfortable plastic chair and hung his head in his hands. He did not see the doors open or the greying old man who came through them. He didn’t hear him either, the first time his name was called. 

He looked up to see the blond mother, the man in the suit and many others staring at him as he stood. Each of them hated him in that moment, he knew, for he had hated many others in the long time they had been together. But this was _his_ news of _his_ Englishman and he followed the grey man in the white coat, hope and dread collecting like drops of rain in his chest.

∞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please don't hate me. use the comments and [my tumblr](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com) to leave as many strong words as it takes (use caps lock. caps lock releases a lot of frustration), but please forgive me.


	12. Formalities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctor’s eyes were sharp and critical in spite of his haggard appearance and his coat had a name embroidered on the breast: _Dr. Greyhame_. "What do you know of the nature of soulmates, Mister Bowman?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here, have some aimless soulmate theorizing/shameless geekery while I torture you some more. 
> 
> might I also apologize in advance for the... distracted? nature of this chapter. I couldn't proofread again and I'm in a strange mood and you know what they say... you are what you write.

∞

He saw only fire and desolation, smelled only the stink of smoke and ash. There was a dragon, winged and terrible with burning coals in its belly and thunder in its mouth. It rained terror down on London and crushed his house beneath its clawed feet while Thranduil watched. 

There were screams and gunfire and sirens, but the beast had been woken and nothing would sway it from its course. There was talk, though, among the people in the streets of a man with an arrow strong enough to piece the dragon’s hide. The serpent spewed flame and curses and it seemed that hope had been lost— that their Dragonslayer would not come. 

But then, without warning, the dragon faltered and the quaking sky fell silent. And there was Bard— a long bow in his hands and soot on his face. Thranduil reached out for him, held him close as his saviour whispered comforts over the din of the fire. 

But their victory was short-lived. The dragon rose from the Thames, steam seeping from its scales, an arrow still lodged in his chest. It took to the sky, flung water from its wings like a false rain that did nothing to extinguish the fires burning below. 

There was only wrath and ruin. All hope had been lost, their city decimated. He held on to his Dragonslayer with all his strength, until the night gave way to a bright and blinding day and Bard was wrenched away in the chaos that surrounded them. 

Still, the city burned.  
And burned, and burned.

∞

"How is he?" Bard was a wreck. The doctor with the white coat and the grey beard led him through the hospital, up two floors and down numerous corridors, and yet he said nothing. "Will he be alright?" Bard pressed again. 

The old man said nothing, only walked and expected Bard to follow, until they came to a stop before an open door. Bard stepped inside but was shocked to find the room furnished not with a bed, but with a single wooden table. 

"I don't understand. Where is Thranduil?" The panic that had tugged him back and forth across the waiting room now surged in his chest and clenched in his gut, renewed in vigour and intensity. Bard watched as the doctor followed him inside and closed the door behind him.

"In due time. Right now, I have some questions for you."

"For me?" Bard frowned. 

"Yes," he sat at one of the chairs at the table, motioning for Bard to take the other. "There are some discrepancies I would like to settle before I bring you to see him."

"What sort of discrepancies? Surely they can wait," 

"I'm afraid they cannot, Mister Bowman. Please, sit down." 

"I will answer no questions until you tell me— is he alright?" 

"He is stabilizing." Was all the doctor said. It was insufficient and it left Bard with more questions, but he pulled the empty chair away from the table and sank into it, his hands trembling and his knees quaking. 

The doctor’s eyes were sharp and critical in spite of his haggard appearance and his coat had a name embroidered on the breast: _Dr. Greyhame_. "What do you know of the nature of soulmates, Mister Bowman?”

"No more than most, I suppose."

"It's all quite fascinating, really. There are, essentially, only two things we know for certain. We know each of us stops aging at eighteen and that we begin again only at the exact moment we meet our match. But these facts open doors to yet more questions!" Greyhame shuffled and leaned forward in his seat, his eyes bright and shining in their excitement. 

"The mechanics of our aging are something of a mystery themselves— there are a number of theories ranging from Evolution to genetic dictation to divine intervention— I could go on all day." Stars, Bard hoped he wouldn't. 

"But the _real mystery_ lies in the catalyst of that change— the soul bond itself. What is it in our nature that creates this bond? Where did it originate? On what basis are these matches made? How does the body know when its match has been found? For that matter, how do we make the distinction between the body and the soul? Is there a soul at all, or does it exist only in the stories we tell our children?" 

Bard eyed the doctor from his place across the table, growing more and more tired of his eccentric ramblings. He was anxious to see his Englishman— his fingers itched and twitched and the panic clenched tighter around his heart. "I'm not sure I follow." 

"Though there is much we do not know, there is a fair amount we have surmised, and many thousands of years of history from which we can draw certain conclusions." 

"I still don't understand— what does this have to do with Thranduil?” 

Rather than elaborate, the doctor pulled a file from his lap, though Bard hadn't noticed he'd been carrying it as they had navigated the hospital corridors. "We have been able to locate Mister Oropherion's medical records, though with no small amount of difficulty. The last documentation of any medical care is from the winter of 1942."

Bard sighed and bit back a curse. He would murder the man once all this was over. "That doesn't surprise me." 

Doctor Grayhame laid out the file on the table, shuffling through it while Bard tapped his foot distractedly. He seemed to find what he'd been searching for, and he pushed the page across the table to Bard. 

It was a scanned image of a yellowed document, the text type-written, faded and uneven. "I would direct your attention here," The doctor pointed to a paragraph midway down the page. 

_Next of kin: son; five years; present  
Soulmate: deceased_

Bard sighed and scrubbed his palms across his face. "You think I'm lying."

"I am wary of that possibility, yes." 

"What cause would I have to lie?" 

"What cause do any of us have to lie, Mister Bowman?" He picked up the paper sitting in front of Bard and placed it back inside his file. "It is quite rare, this thing you claim. For a soul to find its match twice has only ever been heard of once before."

"That does not mean it is not the truth!" 

"But you can understand that it does seem unlikely." 

Bard glared at the wrinkled man across the table as he folded his hands and placed them against the table. "What will it take to convince you?"

"Oh, not to worry. I’ve ordered a panel of tests to analyze the oxidized free radical production and senescent status of Mister Oropherion's somatic mitochondria." 

"And put plainly, that would mean..." 

The doctor chuckled, though Bard failed to find any humour in their situation. "These tests will tell us, among other things, whether he is aging or not."

Bard stared at the old man, his jaw nearly unhinged and his frown deepening. "You might have led with that!" 

Greyhame laughed again and Bard could think of little else besides punching him square on the jaw. "I apologize. You understand that I cannot disclose pertinent medical information or allow you to see Mister Oropherion until we have this settled, but we should have an answer soon." 

Bard gritted his teeth in an effort not to yell, not to push the old man out of his way and fight his way to Thranduil's bedside. 

"Until then, I would ask that you remain here. I will come to collect you when the tests are complete. In the meantime, is there other family who should be contacted?"

Bard frowned and thought of Legolas, feeling guilty that it hadn't occurred to him to contact Thranduil’s son before. He nodded and slouched in his chair, more exhausted after bearing the brunt of the old man's criticism and theories. 

He pulled Thranduil's mobile from his pocket. It was low on charge and all Bard’s text messages and calls from the morning appeared as new notifications. Something told him the Englishman had left it at the office the night before, but Bard found he could not begrudge him this slight. 

There was no password in place. His homescreen was empty but for the four icons on his menu bar: phone, messages, calendar, and notes, in that order. The rest of his apps were only those which came standard, and they had all been filed into a folder labeled "Falderal". It sat in the corner of an otherwise empty second page. His wallpaper was a stock image of raindrops on leaves and this, too, was unsurprising.

It was all so very _Thranduil_ and Bard found it oddly comforting.

Finding Legolas's number was easy; there were only three contacts listed in his recent calls. One of them was Bard’s, the second was his grandda’s shop, and the third belonged to Legolas.

"Ada!" Bard smiled fondly at the sound of Legolas's voice, familiar and dear to him in a way that he couldn't identify. "Please tell me you’ve been ignoring my calls because you've been shacking up with the mechanic. Otherwise I will not forgive you." 

Bard laughed, in good humour if a little uncomfortable. "Hi Legolas." 

"Bard!" He could picture all too well the blush that had no doubt spread over the young man's cheeks, and he was struck by how strange this all was. Legolas was older than Bard— far older— but he, like his father, seemed ageless. 

He wasted little time with pleasantries, his gut turning over with the guilt that he'd forgotten to call Legolas sooner. 

The call was short and Legolas promised to be there as soon as he could, though he had a lengthy trip separating him from his father and feared he would not arrive before nightfall. Bard thanked him and disconnected the call. 

He had no idea how long it took to analyze free radical whatevers and semantic mitocheerios, but he would not allow himself to hope for any semblance of a speedy outcome. Of course, whatever tests the doctor was running would show him Thranduil had indeed found his soulmate— again— and that at least gave him hope. 

He slouched in his chair and settled in for a long wait.

∞

"It's incredible— astounding— I must admit I doubted you Mister Bowman but this— do you know what this could _mean_?" 

"It means you'll bring me to see him now?" Bard's voice was nearly a growl as he stood from his chair, nearly knocking it over in his haste to _get out of this room_. It had been over two hours and Bard had nearly scratched himself raw from the itch in his skin. His stomach was in knots, his head was pounding, his arse was sore and he thought he might combust if he did not see his soulmate soon. 

"Yes yes, of course. Follow me," Grayhame fled the room and Bard followed behind without delay, eager and restless enough to overtake the old man's head start. He spoke excitedly as he led Bard down one corridor and another, seeming to lose his way twice before he _finally_ opened the door to a single hospital room. 

Thranduil slept and Bard was relieved to see some of the colour returned to his cheeks, the sweat dried, and his breath easy. There was an armchair against the wall and Bard pulled it forward, sinking into it heavily and reaching for his Englishman's hand. 

"His fever has come down, though it has not completely resolved. I worry that this might be a sign of more serious problems— there is simply no way to know yet how these past seventy-five years have affected him. His case is unique, especially considering his injury. Only time will tell the lasting effects it may have."

"What do you mean? If it's healed, what further harm could it do?"

"There are a number of possibilities. A dormant infection or lingering nerve damage. Without our soulmate, our mature bodies enter a sort of suspended animation— walking and talking and very much alive, but static, in a way. The effects of aging are held at bay, though as I said before, we do not yet understand how. This stasis could also affect any diseases or infections that may be present. It could stay their progression and any effects they would have on an aging body."

Bard listened as he clutched at Thranduil's hand, his panic had waned but his mind still felt dense and clouded. "So you're saying that… all this..."

"A fever is merely a symptom. This could be only the beginning, I'm afraid." 

" _Doctors_..." the voice was hoarse and quiet but his Englishman's characteristic haughty tone startled Bard thoroughly. "Like winter thunder on a wild wind." His eyes fluttered open and closed again. He was drowsy and his eyes were dull, but he was _present_ — Bard could feel it. His grip on Bard's hand was weak, but it was _there_ and Bard breathed easily for the first time in what felt like days. "Sometimes a fever is just a fever."

∞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf is me. I am Gandalf in this story and this is the culmination of all my soulmate headcanons and research about aging and... I'll probably add to it later.  
> also, shameless Hobbit parallels and quotations.


	13. Failings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil’s thoughts were hazy and disparate, filled with memories of London, of fire, of chaos and of Bard. He felt as though he had been lost for days and he was startled to find himself so suddenly surrounded by white walls and starched cotton and constant noise, but Bard was there, his steady presence a welcome constant in the midst of such dizzying confusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you look below, you'll see that [LoveActuallyFan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/pseuds/LoveActuallyFan) has made _yet more_ art for this story! I mean holy shit! I can't stop looking at it!  
>  she's [therepressedcreative](http://therepressedcreative.tumblr.com) on tumblr and she's taking requests on her art blog [plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com)!

  
[](https://imgur.com/cYU3z6b)

∞

Thranduil’s thoughts were hazy and disparate, filled with memories of London, of fire, of chaos and of Bard. He felt as though he had been lost for days and he was startled to find himself so suddenly surrounded by white walls and starched cotton and constant noise, but Bard was there, his steady presence a welcome constant in the midst of such dizzying confusion.

His doctor was tiresome. Thranduil listened as he outlined the possibilities and the unknowns, listed the diagnostics already in progress, but he paid them little mind. He was exhausted and he had little patience for such trivial matters. He left the room only when Thranduil feigned sleep.

Bard was to his left, eyes downcast, holding Thranduil’s hand and tracing the patterns of his scars. He hadn’t felt the motion— could barely identify it now, even as he watched his soulmate’s fingers move over the raised lines of his skin. He squeezed lightly and turned his hand over, his movements sluggish but determined, and laced their fingers together

“Oh,” Bard started slightly. “I thought you’d fallen asleep.” Thranduil could see the exhaustion of the day in the heavy lines of his frown.

“I couldn’t listen to that doctor babble any longer,” he tried to smile, but feared it became more of a grimace on his tired features. “I saw you in London.” He told Bard of the dragon, spoke of how they’d found each other on the Tower Bridge, only to lose each other again. Bard nodded as he listened but his smile was sad and Thranduil’s mind was slow to recognize that Bard had not been there with him.

The realization left him feeling lonely and desolate.

They spoke a while more, but Thranduil was tired. He closed his eyes again for a moment, and when he opened them again Bard was staring out the window, his warm fingers still tangled up in his own.

“Hello again,” Bard smiled as he sat up, looking even more tired than he had a moment ago. Thranduil frowned and Bard seemed to understand. “You fell asleep.” 

“I did not, it’s been only a minute or two!” 

“It’s been three hours.” Nausea bit at Thranduil's stomach, anxious and flailing. He grit his teeth and pressed his head into the pillows behind him, trying hard to regain some sense of control. 

“I am sorry,” He whispered.

“Don’t be,” Bard laughed, though it was strained and weak and did little to reassure him. “You need sleep, love.” His voice was gentle as a lullaby, his skin was warm in Thranduil’s hand and soft where he touched his cheek. He turned into the feel of it, reached a trembling hand to clasp Bard’s wrist and hold him there.

“No,” Thranduil closed his eyes, let the faint smell of motor oil and his own sweat wash out the remembered stench of dragon fire and crumbled stone. “I mean for all of this. You should not have to sit by my bed for hours while I lie here, useless." 

“Hey,” Bard pulled his hand from Thranduil’s grip and a small, discontented sound scratched at his throat. But Bard did not pull away. Instead, he reached to clasp Thranduil’s face between both palms. "There is nowhere I would rather be than here with you." 

Bard's mouth was on his, warm and tasting of bitter coffee, his days-old stubble scratching at Thranduil’s chin. ”You shouldn’t,” he protested. “What if I’m catching?” But he was greedy, and he coveted the slow drag of his soulmates lips and the smooth expanse of skin beneath his own tacky fingers.

"Then I'll have them move us to a double room," Bard grinned against his lips and kissed him again, soft and gentle and sincere. Thranduil wondered if he would ever grow used to this. Part of him hoped he never would; that each day he might rediscover this safety and surety and l—

"Ah, you're awake! How wonderful.” The same grey doctor stood in the open doorway and Thranduil had to hold back a groan of annoyance as Bard settled into his chair again. "I've just been updating your son on your condition." 

"Legolas?" Thranduil craned his neck to see around the old man where his son stood in the hall. His expression was stern when he finally showed himself. "You did not have to come,"

“Don't be ridiculous. I left as soon as Bard called me."

Thranduil turned to his soulmate to see him looking sheepish and pink. “I didn’t know how serious this was— had no idea when you’d wake up.” He gripped Thranduil's hand again, harsh and desperate as though seeking reassurance that Thranduil was still there. 

"Do not be angry with him, Ada." Legolas stood hesitantly on the opposite side of the bed.

"I am not angry," Thranduil sighed and leaned back against his limp pillows, resigning himself to the indignity of those closest to him seeing him in such a state. "I am glad to see you, iôn-nín." He reached for Legolas, grasped his arm with a fond smile as he sat in a plastic chair.

Legolas turned to the doctor where he stood beyond Thranduil’s feet. "You said you could not be sure of the cause of his illness. But you have suspicions?" 

Thranduil rolled his eyes. "His suspicions have no basis in fact, nor does he have any evidence to support them. He simply wishes to keep me here and study me." 

The doctor stepped forward, raising a finger in protest. “Your condition is incredibly unique, I only—“ 

“Ada!” Thranduil might have scolded Legolas for interrupting, had his son been fifty years younger, or if he were at all interested in listening to the old man babble. “He says you have not been to see a doctor since the war!” 

"I had no need of one!" He turned to the old man begrudgingly. ”Tell him of the phenomenon you described. But please, omit the tiresome details." 

"What I said,” He fixed Thranduil with a stare from beneath his wild, wiry eyebrows, “was that it was very possible that when your body stopped aging, it could have halted the progression of an infection, a virus, or any number of conditions. It could have lay dormant until you met your soulmate."

“That makes sense," Legolas turned from the doctor to Thranduil, a frown drawing his dark brows together. 

"Legolas!" 

"Ada! You cannot keep on neglecting yourself this way! When Naneth— after—“ Legolas sighed, his words unfinished and tugging harshly at the raw places in Thranduil’s chest.

Bard cleared his throat loudly, turning to the doctor with a pointed look. “Could you give us a minute?” Thranduil sighed, infinitely grateful to be rid of the man’s cumbersome presence. He clung to his soulmate’s hand, relieved that he had not thought to excuse himself as well.

The doctor left and closed the door behind him, leaving Thranduil at the mercy of his small and unusual family. 

Legolas rounded on him again. “Things are different now,” he pressed. “You are not some... anomaly beyond the reach of time and consequence; you cannot live this way, with no regard for your self or wellbeing. You have people who love you. You have to _be here_. If not for yourself, then for us.” 

Thranduil looked to his lap. He _had_ been there. For a lifetime, he had endured. Was that not enough? But even as he wondered, he knew it was not. Legolas had been perhaps more alone than Thranduil had been himself— his mother taken from him before he ever knew her— his father more ghost than man as far back as he could remember.

No, he had not been there. Not truly. Thranduil fought the tears that gathered in his throat as the harsh words echoed in the room. He had not been kind to himself, it was true, but he had been even less kind to his son.

He was quiet for a long moment before he found his voice. “I apologize.” His voice was thick on his tongue and he studied the blankets on his lap. “I have acted poorly, to you more than anyone, iôn-nín.”

"It’s alright—“ 

“No,” If he was to confront his failings then he would do so fully. “There were days I could not bring myself to face the world. I saw her absence everywhere and I _hated_ it all. Hated my self more than anything. You cannot know how many times I wished it had been me, so that you could have your mother with you. So that she could have seen you grow.” 

“Ada,” 

“You are so much like her,” Thranduil’s voice was nothing but a broken whisper. Tears burned at his eyes but he smiled. “You are bright and wild and strong. You are everything she loved about this world and you deserved better. You deserved _her_.” 

“I deserved both of you.” Legolas sniffed, wiped tears from his eyes. “What happened was not fair but none of it was your fault. I don’t blame you, Ada. Naneth would not, either. You cannot blame yourself anymore.” 

Thranduil’s chest was filled with heavy regrets and confessions, but all that he could force from his mouth was the choke of a cry as Legolas reached across the hospital bed and wrapped his arms around his neck. He embraced his son tightly, dug his fingers into the cotton of his shirt.

Stars, he could not remember the last time he had held him so. “Ni mela, Legolas.”

“I love you too, Ada.”

∞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so there's my fix it for Legolas and Thranduil's parting words at the end of BotFA because Peter Jackson and I disagree on some things. 
> 
> I'm really sorry for pushing the plot back again. I meant to get further, but my brain is really not cooperating today and _someone_ was waiting very impatiently...  
>  :)


	14. Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being in Thranduil’s house without him was strange. He had been here not so very long ago and yet their weekend felt so far away Bard felt he might have dreamed it. But their wine glasses from Saturday night were still on the counter, the takeaway containers from Sunday still in the rubbish bin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, the secret is officially out.  
> I used Gandalf to fulfill the word count goal I'd set for myself. if there's anything that man can do, it's talk a lot.
> 
> here, have some scarred Thranduil to help with the things you're inevitably going to be feeling. the artist is [LoveActuallyFan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/pseuds/LoveActuallyFan) and she's taking requests on her art blog [plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com) :)

  
[](https://imgur.com/MoFJnNV)

∞

It was after noon on Thranduil’s second day in the hospital when he’d asked Bard to bring him the case for his contact lens and a change of clothes. The gown itched at his skin, he said, and it was undignified for him to wear something so indecent. Bard had rolled his eyes at these dramatics, but he could not find the resolve to deny his Englishman these simple comforts. And so he’d left— taken a cab to gather some clothes from his house. 

Besides, it gave Thranduil some time to spend with Legolas alone. Bard seemed to have found himself caught between the steps of an uneasy dance between father and son, one that had likely been going on longer than he’d been alive.

Being in Thranduil’s house without him was strange. He had been here not so very long ago and yet their weekend felt so far away Bard felt he might have dreamed it. But their wine glasses from Saturday night were still on the counter, the takeaway containers from Sunday still in the rubbish bin.

He gathered clothes from Thranduil’s dresser and closet— T-shirts and pyjama bottoms and pants. And a pair of jeans for when he was finally able to go home… whenever that might be. Bard shook his head and turned his back on the twisted bedsheets, retracing his steps through the empty house.

When he returned, Doctor Greyhame and Legolas were speaking animatedly to one another from either side of Thranduil’s bed. And there, in the middle of their commotion lay his soulmate, looking smaller than he’d ever seen him. His hair was limp and in need of a good wash, his eyes were downcast and shadowed by a deep frown. His shoulders slouched heavily, concave and bony and defeated. His hands shook against the rumpled sheets in his lap.

Bard set the bag of clothing down inside the door, halting the conversation and snapping Thranduil from his cloudy concentration. 

“Bard,” He could hardly believe his name had come from Thranduil’s mouth; it was small, desperate and uncertain and so _unlike_ him. The sound of it set fear echoing in Bard’s bones. Something was wrong. 

“What is it, what’s happened?” Thranduil’s eyes were wide, the fluorescent lights only making him look more gaunt and hollowed and scared. 

Bard’s mind stuttered over the thought: his Englishman was scared. 

He was at his side in an instant, fitting his fingers into the familiar creases of his palm. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?” He scrutinized Thranduil’s face, searching for an answer in the jagged lines of his frown and the faint tremble of his lips. He turned to the doctor where he now stood at the foot of the bed. “What did you find?” 

“Nothing is certain yet, but I’ve ordered some new tests.” 

“What tests? What happened?” Thranduil was staring intently at his lap again. Legolas was wringing his hands. “Please, tell me!”

“Mister Oropherion has developed severe reflexive and gross motor deficits, as well as acute paresthesia distal to the left hip.”

“What does that mean?”

“I cannot move my leg.” Thranduil’s voice was brittle and sour and it made Bard’s ears ring.

“What?” Bard’s head was spinning. Thranduil was fine when he’d left— had been teasing and smiling and seemed to be on the mend. “This happened while I was gone?” He was never going to leave his soulmate’s side again. Not if this was the result. Thranduil nodded, gripping Bard’s hand tighter and running his finger repeatedly along the edge of Bard’s thumbnail.

“What does this mean?” Bard didn’t understand. His thoughts were sluggish and his voice was hoarse. He turned to the doctor again. “What would cause this? Is it permanent?” 

Greyhame hesitated. He wasn’t telling them something; was withholding information _again_ and it made Bard’s vision spot red. He was beginning to understand Thranduil’s aversion to doctors.

“I cannot say as of yet,” He shrugged. “There are some conditions that fit with his symptoms, but I would rather not worry you unless I can be sure.”

“Worry us?” Bard’s temper flared, bitter resentment spitting from his mouth with every word. “You think we are not worried already? That it is somehow kinder to tell us nothing?” The old man kept his face impassive and professional, but it only fuelled Bard’s rage further. 

Before he could speak again, however, the doctor cleared his throat. “I’ll check on the lab and let you know as soon as we find something.” He fled the room, his white coat billowing at his cowardly heels.

“Bloody fucking doctors,” Bard hissed. Only once the room had fallen silent did he realize how tightly he was holding on to Thranduil’s hand— and how violently his soulmate was trembling as he stared at the wrinkled lump of sheets covering his leg. His expression was stony and sullen, his shoulders were drawn tight and his hair hung in his face. 

“Hey, don’t worry,” Bard whispered, standing from his chair to perch himself on the edge of the hospital bed. He reached to brush Thranduil’s hair behind his ear, let his fingers trace the curve of it and waited until he could see the stormy blue of his eyes. “We’ll have an answer soon, alright? Then we can focus on getting you well again, yeah?”

Thranduil said nothing, but his breath turned sharp. His eyes were wide and turbulent, flicking around the room as if seeing it for the first time. Bard brought his Englishman’s palm to his lips and held it there, tried to slow his thoughts and ease the panic he could feel churning in his soulmate’s chest. 

It was a strange thing, to feel another person’s emotions in tandem with his own. Like currents in the ocean: independent and unsteady until they flowed in the same direction and swept his feet from under him. He tried, then, to give himself up and let the tide pull him out, but Bard could barely keep his head above water.

He opted for another approach: he turned to stretch his legs toward the foot of the bed, rested his shoulders against the pillows and pulled Thranduil closer. He resisted only briefly, confusion overflowing into Bard’s own mind until he gave in and curled into Bard’s chest. He tucked his head against Bard’s neck and he stayed there. His thoughts were swirling, Bard could tell, but he focused instead on calming his own mind. 

“I’m going to get a coffee.” Legolas mumbled. He stood from his chair and left the room, closing the door behind him without another word. Again, Bard worried he was intruding on somethig, like the uncertain end of a cold war. But there was nothing to do for it now— Bard was there and he would not be parted from his soulmate a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. 

He leaned back against the bed and held his Englishman tighter, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. He wished he’d thought to bring one of Thranduil’s pillows— this bed was terribly uncomfortable. He didn’t know how Thranduil had lay there for over a day already.

It was a long time they stayed that way, Thranduil cradled in the space between Bard’s arms that seemed to have been made just for him. Bard’s thoughts were of simple things: the ghost of breath against the skin of his neck, the heavy weight against his chest and the slowing tempo of his soulmate’s heart. He found calm in the long pull of Thranduil’s hair through his fingers and the warmth of his skin through the thin hospital gown. 

“What is that?” Thranduil’s voice startled him and the soft tune he’d begun humming stopped abruptly.

“You don’t know it?” Thranduil shook his head against Bard’s chest. “I first heard it on my eighteenth birthday. It was my favourite song until I was twenty-four. Along with every other person on the planet, but that’s not really the point.” 

They were silent for a moment, but Thranduil traced circles over the fabric of his shirt and the rip tides in Bard’s chest had slowed. “Sing it for me?” 

Bard smiled, swallowed his self-consciousness and began to sing. His pitch was off and many of the lines were mumbled or forgone entirely, but he could feel his soulmate’s shoulders relax as he circled round without pause to begin the song anew. 

It wasn’t long before he gave up the words in favour of humming again and Thranduil was breathing evenly, the busy hum of his thoughts finally quiet. Bard dozed off not long after— flashes of disrupted and erratic memories emerging from a still water before sinking again.

∞

Waking up to the animated technical speak of a ridiculous old man might just be the most terrible way to wake up. Bard groaned at the stiffness of his back and the tingling in his legs, the bright white walls of the hospital ward an unkind reminder of where he was and what had happened.  
Thranduil was awake, but he still hid in the shadow of Bard’s shoulder, curled defensively against the ramblings of the doctor who was now pacing the short length of the room. Bard couldn’t find it in himself to blame him, though he struggled to sit upright. He had no idea how long it had been, but Greyhame looked almost as haggard as he felt himself. 

“This is a landmark— I daresay a breakthrough.” 

“Sorry,” Bard croaked. “Didn’t catch that.” 

The doctor barely paused, his words and his waving hands continuing with hardly a breath between. “This could be the key to isolating the cause for our aging— could even give us insights into the nature of the soul bond itself! The fact that the delays in our aging can affect the spread of a virus is _astonishing_! I must say, even though the symptoms were unmistakable, I doubted it myself. It’s near conclusive proof that our biology undergoes a change on the cellular level.”

“If it is a virus, what is the treatment?” Legolas had returned to his chair to the right of the bed, his eyes shadowed by dark circles and an irritated frown. 

“Oh,” Greyhame stopped pacing and turned to face them. His eyes were bright but the near-manic smile that lit his features had dimmed significantly. “Unfortunately this virus cannot be cured— only managed.” 

Thranduil had picked his head up from Bard’s chest and sat up somewhat. Dread pooled in Bard’s stomach and clenched tight around his ribcage. Neither Thranduil nor Legolas said anything and so Bard swallowed against the lump in his throat and asked, “What does that mean? What is the virus?” 

“The amount of antibodies present in your blood were unthinkable! Your body, though suspended in time, was able to produce an immune reaction to the virus. This is good news, as it should be rather self-limiting. I could publish a paper on this phenomenon alone— all our research to date has confirmed only that—“ 

“For fuck’s sake! In _English. Please._ ” Bard’s voice was nearly a growl but he could not bring himself to care. He’d had more than enough of this doctor and his rants and his unfocused bedside manner. “What is it? What will happen now?” 

Thranduil’s grip on his hand was crushing, but his was no better.

“It is uncommon in the developed world, but not eradicated. With your symptoms and your limited vaccine history, my suspicions were strong. But the serology confirmed the presence of the Polio virus.”

∞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the comments below are available for any discontent or rage or shock or harsh words you'd like to share.  
> you can also send me an ask on [tumblr](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com).  
> I'm a glutton for punishment— clearly.


	15. Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard was asleep in his chair beside the bed. He had listened to the doctors’ exhortations and asked them questions when Thranduil could not speak— when he could hear nothing over the rush of blood in his ears. All evening Bard had endured them and when they were finally gone he still had the strength to smile. Thranduil had barely been able to fight off the panic that threatened to choke him even then, but Bard's voice was soft and kind and he murmured reassurances against his forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew, okay! first thing's first:  
> I have news!!  
> November is National Novel Writing month and this year, instead of writing a separate full-length piece, I've decided to write a short story every day. they're all going to be Barduil themed and I'm going to post them all here! 
> 
>  
> 
> **and I need your suggestions!**
> 
>  
> 
> send me a prompt, a situation, a scene, an AU— anything. it can be within this universe (a detail you want elaborated on or something I didn't include) or an idea completely unrelated. fluff, angst, smut, horror— anything goes.  
> shoot me an ask [here](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/ask) so I can keep track of them. I'm going to post them as a series, so keep an eye out starting on the first! 
> 
> /shameless self-promotion.  
> here, have some happy times.

∞

It was long after dark when the doctors and the specialists and the therapists finally began to disperse. After hours of being bombarded with possibilities and prognoses and treatments, Thranduil understood only one thing: none of them could say with any certainty what would happen to him. Even between the dozen trained minds who seemed to have assigned themselves to his case, not one could tell him if the effects of the virus would spread. None could say if he would ever regain function of his leg, or if he would lose the other, as well. They were hopeful, they said, but hope was all they could offer him.

Some hours later it was after midnight and Thranduil still sat awake. Legolas had excused himself to find decent tea; he would likely not be back before morning and Thranduil could not blame him. A handful of confessions and tears were not enough to redeem him of an entire lifetime of tension and misunderstandings.

Bard was asleep in his chair beside the bed. He had listened to the doctors’ exhortations and asked them questions when Thranduil could not speak— when he could hear nothing over the rush of blood in his ears. All evening Bard had endured them and when they were finally gone he still had the strength to smile. Thranduil had barely been able to fight off the panic that threatened to choke him even then, but Bard's voice was soft and kind and he murmured reassurances against his forehead.

But Bard was asleep now and the dark offered Thranduil no distraction from his thoughts. Polio. Of all the fates to befall him. Fucking Polio. The stars were surely laughing at him— his leg prickled with pins and needles and he tried, for what must have been the thousandth time, to move the disobedient muscles and prove this diagnosis wrong.

But as it had been every time before, he could not swing his legs from the bed and to the floor. Could not even twitch his big toe. Perhaps he would never stand on his own again. His doctors had hope, yes, but hope could only carry a person so far and this knowledge, coupled with his own limitations, had turned him resentful. 

He thought of waking Bard— he longed for his company and his smile— but could not bring himself to deprive his soulmate of this much-needed sleep. He was perhaps more exhausted than Thranduil and he'd given up too much to be near him already. 

A bitter sigh scratched at his throat. Bard was too young to be burdened by illness and disability that was not his own. But even so, Thranduil was too selfish— too weak and too afraid he might flee to ever try and push him away.

There was a place in his chest, somewhere intangible and hidden, where he could feel Bard’s soul settled alongside his own. It was a heavy place, empty for so long and yet weighted by loss and grief and Thranduil had learned to ignore its presence. But Bard had snuck in, around every defence he’d had and anchored himself there, his presence as real and solid as the feeling of his rough palm against Thranduil’s cheek. 

He wondered if Bard's own soul had taken this bond so literally— if he could feel Thranduil’s presence as concretely as Thranduil could feel his. He hoped, for his soulmate’s sake, that the pieces that had found their way to him were whole, and that the years had not been as harsh to them as they had been to the rest of him. 

Perhaps, if this truly was the work of the stars, they had preserved a piece of him that was whole still, and saved it for the moment he met Bard. Thranduil could not bring himself to believe they would show such consideration in the midst of their single-minded torture, but he hoped they might.

It could have been minutes or hours that he lingered on these thoughts, but in the next moment there was activity around him. Daylight streamed through his eyelids and his dark mood seemed to have fled in the face of it. Thranduil kept his eyes closed, feeling more tired than he had been the night before and not wishing to face the day. 

He heard the click of the latch on the door and shuffling footsteps. “Good morning,” This was Bard’s voice, and the sound of it sent chills through the hollowed places in Thranduil’s chest. 

“Good morning,” This was Legolas, and Thranduil nearly sat up in his eagerness to see his son. He waited, however, and listened as the exchange continued. 

“Did you just come back?” 

The room was silent for a moment before Legolas answered. “I needed some time to think.” 

“I’m sorry that it’s strange for you to see me with your father. I can’t imagine such a thing myself.”

“No,” Legolas breathed a small laugh. “It’s not that. I have never known him to be with anyone, but I could not resent you for bringing such life to him. Even in the midst of all this, he is happier than I have ever seen him.”

“But you’ve been avoiding him.” Thranduil could nearly hear the asserting frown in his soulmate’s voice, for he had been its target more than once. 

“Yes I suppose I have,” 

“Why?” 

Legolas was quiet for a moment. “I am not unaccustomed to seeing him bedridden and withdrawn, and yet even after losing my mother he stayed. I know what a rare thing that is but I’d begun to take it for granted that I would always have him with me. I cannot remember a time without him; never had cause to believe I would outlive him. It is a sharp truth. One I was not prepared for.” 

His son’s words crashed into him with a wave of nausea. Finding Bard meant that he’d begun changing, yes, but it also left him susceptible to the work of time and— illness. Sons outlived their fathers all the time; Thranduil’s own father had died in 1945 and his mother with him. But Legolas had never been faced with such a reality. 

The room was quiet, the bustle of the hospital muted and seeming far away behind the closed door. Bard squeezed Thranduil’s arm for a moment before he stood. “I’ll give you two some time alone.” 

The door squeaked on its hinges and clicked closed as silence descended again. Legolas sighed and a weight came to rest on the right side of the bed. Thranduil opened his eyes to see Legolas had crossed his arms over the mattress and dropped his forehead on top of them. He raised his hand and hesitated only briefly before resting it atop his son’s head. 

“Ada,” Legolas started.

“I am sorry, iôn-nín.” 

“I thought you were asleep,” 

“I never wanted to leave you alone but I fear I may have done more harm by remaining here.” 

Legolas fixed him with a stare. In it was his mother’s sternness, her ferocity, and a wisdom that belied his young face. “No, Ada. You must never apologize for surviving. I will never regret a moment you were here with me. I only wish I had learned to appreciate it more when I was young. Before circumstance forced me to.” 

“We are not so unlike many parents and their children, in that respect.” Thranduil laughed, though it was hoarse and dry in his throat. “You and I have only lived longer than most.”

“I suppose so,” Legolas smiled, though his eyes were dark. 

Thranduil’s doctor chose that moment to come bursting through the door, practically vibrating with energy. Behind him was one of the others from the night before, though Thranduil could not remember her name or his function. 

“Good, you’re awake!” Said the old doctor, who Bard had told him was named Greyhame— a fitting name, if nothing else. “You remember Doctor Finarfiniel. She will be taking charge of your physical recovery. I thought it prudent that she have the chance to outline your treatment plan without all the commotion of yesterday evening.” 

“How thoughtful,” Thranduil’s voice was level but his temper flared. The last thing he wanted was to be surrounded by more doctors. He yearned for his own bed and the warmth of his soulmate next to him— his bones ached with the force of his want. 

“Hello again, Thranduil,” Galadriel’s smile was slow but bright and Thranduil could find no lie in her expression as it spread over her face. 

“Doctor,” he nodded.

“Please, call me Galadriel. I’m not an MD; my specialty is in physical therapy and long-term recovery.” Thranduil wondered how old she was, to have a name like that. People would often frown at him as though he were a relic when he would tell them his name, and it seemed as though she may have had similar experiences.

The morning passed quickly. Bard returned with breakfast from the canteen, though he had little chance to speak— and Thranduil, little time to eat. But hearing Legolas voice his thoughts had renewed his will to press on, and so he paid his full attention to the woman who had taken Bard’s chair. She outlined months of strength training and occupational therapy and the thought of it had Thranduil’s head spinning. So long had he spent avoiding thoughts of the bleak future he’d seen before him— and since this illness, even more so. Fully grasping the plan did not come easily.

Galadriel left some time after lunch, when Bard had returned yet again with food, though this time it was from a nearby pub rather than the canteen. Thranduil was grateful, though he did not say so. Hospital food was quite possibly the most awful thing he’d ever tasted.  They ate together, Bard and Legolas on either side of the bed. Their conversations was light and amicable and Thranduil could not help the thought that this was all he could want: his soulmate and his son, together and sharing each other’s company. Sharing _his_ company.

Even after so short a time, they were both of them his family.

Bard cleared away the containers from their lunch and Legolas went to find a rubbish bin. Thranduil could not help the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He felt better than he had in days— since he’d woken up on Monday morning and been forced to leave the comfort of his bed and drag himself to work. In retrospect, he had felt the beginnings of illness even as early as that morning. 

He did not let the guilt of his inaction weigh him down, however, nor was he distressed when he reflexively tried to stand from his bed and found he was unable. Instead, he set his sights on Bard, expelled a small, determined sigh and said, “Help me up,” 

“What?” 

“Help me up, please.” He’d been disconnected from the bags of fluids that hung beside the bed and taken off most of the monitoring equipment. The contraption on his finger was easy enough to remove and then there was nothing holding him back but his own impediment. “Galadriel said herself It would do no good to remain so sedentary and I can’t stand to be in this bed another minute. I need to stand up.” 

“Alright,” Bard stuttered. Thranduil threw the dreary blankets from his lap and used his hands to heave the dead weight of his leg over the edge of the mattress. Bard situated himself on the the bed to his left, his hand warm where he gripped Thranduil’s ribs. The touch brought a memory back to him, coloured though it was by his fever and hallucinations. 

“You carried me from my office before bringing me here, yes?” Bard’s eyes were wide and his lips were parted slightly, no doubt confused by the sudden shift in his soulmate’s demeanour.

“Aye,”

“Then this should not be so taxing for you, Dragonslayer.” Thranduil smirked, the skin of his face still dirty from sweat and stiff under the unfamiliar motion. He was in desperate need of a shower. 

Bard laughed. The dark circles beneath his eyes seemed to lessen even as Thranduil watched, and his hesitation evaporated. “Well then. Up we go,” Bard held on to Thranduil’s left hand where he’d draped it over his shoulder. He counted to three and they stood. 

Thranduil’s joints creaked and popped from disuse, the muscles in his afflicted leg cramping slightly as it hung lifelessly to the floor. It was a strange sensation— like waking up with a numb and useless arm. It ached slightly and tingled, but it would not respond to his instruction. It buckled when he tried to rest his weight upon it, but Bard was still holding on to him and he did not fall. 

“You alright?” Bard frowned, concern drawing his features tight.

He nodded and looked to his bare feet on the tiled floor. Bard was smiling, his eyes brimming with wonder and with affection. The same feeling hummed in Thranduil’s chest, in the space between his ribs where once there had only been despair and loneliness. 

Bard’s hands came to rest on his waist and Thranduil used his leverage to turn toward him fully. He wrapped one arm tighter around his Dragonslayer’s shoulders, brought the other hand up to brush across the beard that had grown to obscure most of his chin and sharp jaw.

Bard’s lips were chapped when he leaned down to kiss them, cracked and broken from his worrying teeth, but they were pliant and eager against his own. Thranduil tangled his fingers in Bard’s hair and leaned his weight against his chest. He was breathless, weightless, and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t stand on his own, so long as Bard was there to catch him.

“We’ll be alright,” Thranduil whispered. “Won’t we?” He ghosted his thumb over the red flush of Bard’s lips, felt the smile that started there and watched as it crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Aye,” Bard’s voice was breathy and soft against Thranduil’s cheek. “Of that I have no doubt.”

∞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that each soulmate feels their connection in a different way. Bard's description last chapter (thank you for the idea Sarah, as always) made me wonder about Thranduil's experience.  
> in earlier chapters he described the hurt he could feel from Bard as something that tugged at the hem of his shirt. Bard is a much more emotive person by nature, and Thranduil's life has been defined by physical pain. it made sense that he would feel their connection almost tangibly. 
> 
> Galadriel's appearance here was a bit of a surprise to me (I blame Jenn for her icon asking me questions), and the ending was also a surprise (thanks again, Sarah, for demanding kisses). 
> 
> we've officially turned the corner! I'm not sure how much longer this fic will be, but we're nearing the end.
> 
> please please send me suggestions and requests you have for short stories! my ask box has anon turned on if that suits you :)


	16. Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard couldn't help but to think that perhaps they'd reached a turning point— that soon they could leave the hospital behind for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR LETTING THIS STORY GO WITHOUT AN UPDATE FOR SO LONG.  
> PLEASE FORGIVE ME! 
> 
> it's been a bit difficult, getting this chapter written. hopefully it doesn't show through the story! I tried to make up for it with lots of cute and kisses :)  
> a special thank you to [LoveActuallyFan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/pseuds/LoveActuallyFan) for giving me the push I needed to finish ♡

∞

It was five days they’d been staying in hospital. Five full days and the numbness in Thranduil’s left leg hadn’t abated. But it hadn’t spread, either, and that was probably the best news they could have hoped for. It was the best news they'd _allowed_ themselves to hope for, anyway. Thranduil's prognosis was better every day there were no new symptoms. Bard's spirits lifted each time Gandalf concluded his exam with a smile and careful words of encouragement. 

But Bard could see the whole ordeal was wearing Thranduil steadily down. The sounds of rushing footsteps and frantic shouts racing down the hallway kept Thranduil up late most nights, the constant activity and the dim interior making him look even more tired and harrowed. 

Bard had hardly left Thranduil's side since he’d been admitted— only took short trips into the city to pick up food or to Thranduil’s house on the edge of town to fetch clean clothes. He didn't bother washing the dirty shirts and lounge wear he'd bring back with him— only left them in a steadily growing pile by the closet in favour of returning immediately to Thranduil's bedside. But neither could he find it in himself to bring more than a day or two of fresh clothes at a time.

They would be leaving soon, after all. 

Bard returned from one such trip to find Thranduil sitting on his bed, a day-old jumper hanging from his hunched shoulders, skin washed out from the fluorescent lights and eyes glassed over as he stared toward the window. Something in Bard snapped. He dropped the pile of flannel and knitwear and books onto the edge of the bed. Then he turned heel and traced his steps back toward the nurse’s station. He had a plan, but he couldn't execute it on his own.

“What is that?” Thranduil asked with a frown and the beginnings of a sneer when Bard returned. 

“This,” Bard motioned vaguely to the stack of blankets on the seat in front of him. “Is a wheelchair.” 

“I can see that. I can’t imagine what you think you’re doing with it.” 

“It’s the only way I could convince Gandalf to let me take you outside.” 

“Outside?” Thranduil frowned, but Bard could feel the phantom beat of Thranduil’s pulse quicken beneath his skin. 

“Yes. Outside. You’re bored out of your wits. You haven’t seen the sun in so long you’re practically translucent and some fresh air will do you good." He locked the wheels of the chair the way the nurse had shown him and picked up Thranduil’s coat from the hook on the back of the door. 

“You can’t be serious.” 

“I am,” Bard smiled at his soulmate’s stubbornness. “Unless you want to stay cooped up in here some more.” 

“No,” Thranduil sighed and looked out the window again. “No, of course you're right. I'm sorry.” 

"Come on," Bard held Thranduil’s coat out to him, the smart structured lines looking out of place among sleepwear and slippers and a careless blond bun. Bard sat beside his soulmate as he fastened the final button of his coat, waiting patiently for him to loop his arm around Bard's shoulder so they could stand.

Thranduil sighed as Bard wheeled him out into the hallway. Nurses and hospital staff smiled and offered greetings as they passed by— Bard returned them with a friendly smile while Thranduil kept his head down and picked at the hem of the blankets draped over his lap. Had Bard been able to see his face, he had no doubt there would be an embarrassed blush colouring his cheeks.

There was a small garden off the side of the hospital, paved with smooth cobblestones and surrounded by shapely shrubs and tall oak trees. A weight seemed to fall from both their shoulders as they stepped from the harsh light of the corridor and out into the sun. Bard had been outside just minutes before, but the colours seemed brighter— richer than they had been. The air was crisp and clean and it smelled of earth and damp grass. The stench of death and disinfectant seemed to ooze from their lungs and slough from their skin as they made their way across the garden.

Bard lay a blanket over a stone bench before helping his soulmate to stand. The movements were awkward but not unfamiliar, and soon they both sat facing out toward the surrounding trees. They huddled close and Bard tucked another blanket over both their legs, turning to see the change evident on Thranduil's face. His eyes were brighter in the light of the sun, his smile wide and content, his breath a wisp of fog in the late autumn chill. He laughed when Bard leaned in close and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

"Better?" Bard whispered as Thranduil's attention was caught by the movement of the bare tree branches across the yard. Birds chirped and sang as Bard sought out the heat of Thranduil's skin at the base of his neck. 

"Yes," Bard could feel more than hear the word as he pressed kisses along the lines of sinew and muscle. "Thank you." Thranduil's hand was cool when he reached for Bard's cheek. Bard clasped his own fingers around it and pressed a chaste and lingering kiss to his palm. He opened his eyes to see the chilly air had painted a rosy blush across Thranduil's cheeks and the tips of his ears. 

"We should have brought you a hat," he laughed. "And a scarf. I'll go fetch them, if you're cold—" Bard made to extract himself from their bundle of blankets, but Thranduil tightened his hold on Bard's hand. 

"You'll do no such thing! Stop fussing," Thranduil inched himself closer. Thoughts of hats and hospitals and illness fled his mind when Thranduil sought out Bard's lips. He held Thranduil close by the waist, feeling giddy as Thranduil softly scratched the growing beard at the line of his jaw.

Bard couldn't help the wide smile that broke their kiss. He couldn't help but to think that perhaps they'd reached a turning point— that soon they could leave the hospital behind for good. He filled his lungs with the chill of the air and closed his eyes against the faint warmth of the sun. He sighed happily and let himself forget everything but the weight and warmth of his soulmate against his shoulder.

∞

Two days later, Bard bustled around the room gathering personal effects— clothes, razors, the case for the coloured contact Thranduil had taken out the day after he’d arrived— and packed them into bags. Legolas had gone ahead with the bulk of their belongings and Thranduil sat on the edge of the bed wearing a pair of jeans and one of Bard's T-shirts beneath his jacket. 

Gandalf had finally given Thranduil the go-ahead to be discharged— they were going home today. Relief had overcome him— half of it must have come from Thranduil, but Bard could hardly distinguish between the feelings that flooded his chest.

But now Thranduil sat, wringing his hands in his lap, swinging his foot and biting at the inside of his lip as he frowned. Nervous energy seemed to billow from the angle of his shoulders and echo in the dull thud of his shoe against the metal frame of the bed. Bard set down the jumper he held and sank onto the mattress beside his soulmate. He said nothing, choosing instead to let the solid weight of his arm rest against Thranduil's, serving as a reminder that he was there.

After a moment, Thranduil sighed. "I want to go home," he whispered. "I do. But I thought I would be well and whole when I did. Even this morning I hoped... But now we're leaving and I am still no better than I was when I arrived and—"

"Hey," Bard picked Thranduil's hand up off his lap and held it tightly. "Look at me. Tell me what you see." He said.

"Bard don't be silly—"

"Come on, just for a minute." Thranduil sighed, but he turned to look at him anyway. The petulant frown on his face only deepened when Bard smiled. "Any dragons? Flames? Any... fairies or trolls or tiny men walking on my head?"

"I see hot air spouting from your mouth."

"Well there you go." Bard shrugged. "You've made it through with your sparkling sense of humour completely intact." Thranduil scowled as Bard grinned. "When Tauriel called me, you were... gone. You opened your eyes and you couldn't see me. You were so far away and I didn't know if you'd ever come back to me. But you did. You're here. It's more than I dared to hope for and I can't bring myself to wish for anything different." 

"I saw you," Thranduil's voice was like a far away wind. His eyes were storm clouds and his smile was tentative sunlight dancing across rough waters. He held Bard's hand tight in one hand and with the other reached to thread his fingers through the loose hair at the nape of Bard's neck. "I saw you," he breathed, and leaned to press his forehead against Bard's.

Bard tipped his chin to reach Thranduil's lips, felt the curt line of them ease and soften beneath the gentle pressure of his kiss. He raised his hand to thread his fingers through Thranduil's hair, soft and freshly washed and hanging loose around his shoulders. "You'll be okay," he whispered. He ignored Thranduil's frown— small, but laced with trepidation and doubt at Bard's words. "What ever happens next, we'll get through it together. Okay?"

Thranduil sighed, squeezed Bard's hand and opened his eyes, but he never spoke. Doctor Greyhame chose that moment to rush into the room, a quiet smile wrinkling his eyes and a stack of documents in his hand. 

Hours passed while Thranduil signed documents and Gandalf— and eventually Galadriel too— outlined his continued treatment. The fight, it seemed, was far from over. 

Bard pushed Thranduil's wheelchair as they followed Gandalf through the corridors— They filed into the lift and began their descent to the ground floor, the doctor speaking excitedly about the future of his research on the nature of soulmates in light of this new _discovery_. Bard wasn't quite listening; he was too focused on the heat of Thranduil's palm and the small circles he was tracing across Bard's wrist. 

They reached the ground floor to find Legolas waiting in the lobby, his brow creased in a frown and his hands twisting in the hem of his jacket. "Legolas," Thranduil sat up in his chair. "What's wrong?" 

"There are people with cameras outside. News crews and reporters asking questions to anyone and everyone they can find. They're waiting for you." 

"Me?" Thranduil's thumb stilled on Bard's skin, the grip he had on his hand tightening. 

"What for?" Bard asked.

"Oh," Gandalf's excited tone faltered and the smile had disappeared from his face when Bard turned to him. "I'm afraid this may be my fault." 

"Your fault?" Anger was quickly budding in Bard's gut, giving his tone a sharp edge that echoed in the silence that had fallen over the elevator. 

"I have a friend at the Chronicle. I may have mentioned to him— in passing— that I had a patient diagnosed with Polio." 

"And that warrants a flock of reporters waiting outside the hospital?"

"I may have discussed with him the circumstances of the diagnosis. Namely that you had found your soulmate for a second time."

"You did what?" Panic warred with the shock of Thranduil's words, Bard's own heart racing alongside his.

"What about patient confidentiality?" Bard gasped. 

"I didn't give your name or any other details. I only expressed to him how rare these circumstances are and what it might mean for our understanding of soulmates. I trust Saruman!" The doctor pleaded. "I never imagined this would be the result, I promise you." 

"Perhaps you ought to reevaluate where you place your trust." Thranduil barked. Bard gripped the handles of Thranduil's chair more tightly. 

"I've brought the car to the underground garage." Legolas sighed. "The lift can take us there, yes?" 

"Yes, of course," Gandalf muttered. Legolas stepped into the elevator car and Gandalf pressed the button that would bring them to the lower levels. The ride was quiet until the bell dinged their arrival and the doors slid open. "I will speak to the press," the doctor said. "I'll see that they don't learn your identity." 

"Yes," Thranduil's tone was harsh, biting and cold. "You will." Bard kept his mouth closed, worried the rage burning in his soulmate might find its way into his own words. Gandalf remained in the lift, the fluorescent lights casting heavy shadows beneath his eyes and accentuating his tired old face. Bard gave him a curt nod as the doors slid closed.

∞

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for sticking with this fic, even through a Polio diagnosis and then two months without a new chapter.  
> you guys are the best! I hope you all had lovely holidays ♡


	17. Fester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares were not the least of Thranduil's problems; The days that followed his release from the hospital brought little relief from the tedium of constant care and activity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry— again— that I've gone so long without posting a new chapter! my brain is having a rough go of it. 
> 
> you'll also notice I renamed chapter 16. as if you needed any further evidence of my senility, I couldn't think of the word 'freedom' while trying to give it a title -_-  
> the next chapter will likely be called Frenzy, instead.

_It was different this time._

_Thranduil woke with a start in the chill of his bedroom. Moonlight and a harsh wind whistled through the open window. The bedsheets were twisted and bundled around Thranduil’s waist, leaving him shivering against the cold. Thunder rumbled in the distance as he sat up in bed._

_The wind died down suddenly, giving way to a dark and impenetrable silence. “Legolas?” He called. His voice echoed dully, as if the night had swallowed up the sound before it could leave the room. Thranduil could not remember going to bed hours before, could not remember having dinner or what he had done that day. He thought he recalled the relief of coming home after time spent away, but the sensation felt hollow without the knowledge of where he’d been or why._

_Something was wrong. Something was missing— something vital. Though Thranduil could not recall what it was or where it had been, the absence of it seemed to yawn and stretch in the stillness of the night, hanging just beyond the periphery of Thranduil’s thoughts._

_The wind picked up again, howling through the trees outside and screaming through the open window. The thunder was closer— the frame of Thranduil’s bed trembled slightly as it cracked again and the roar of rain pounding the earth rose up in its wake. The sheets were still wrapped around Thranduil’s legs and he fought them, struggling to pull himself free as the disquiet in his chest churned, twisting and surging and morphing into the first tinges of panic._

_Something was wrong. Something was missing._

_All at once, the rain was not rain; the heavy growl echoing through the trees was not thunder. What had begun as a gentle hum in the distance became deafening in the dark of the room. He was frantic now, turning in his bed and struggling to tear his legs from the knotted sheets. He had to find Legolas, he had to find—_

_The night opened up, violent streaks of light tearing through the curtains, whistling and exploding in the trees outside. The ringing in his ears could only dampen the sound of chopping propellers and the whistle of falling bombs. The earth shook again, heat and smoke rushing in to replace the late autumn chill._

_The house creaked and groaned as the wall beside Thranduil’s bed fell away, the world outside bright as daylight with the flames so close. He was still wrapped in his sheets, drenched now in a sweat that left his skin cold despite the heat._

_But this was different— this was not London. There was no war, no air raids. Thranduil had survived this once and he had the scars to prove it, but this was different. All at once, he remembered. The door burst open, slamming against the wall and sending sparks dancing through the air._

_Bard! Thranduil coughed as the name rose in his throat, dry and scorched by the smoke. He struggled again as Bard came closer, shielding his face with his arm against the fire. Thranduil cried out as Bard’s arms came around him, and the house began to groan beneath its own weight. Another explosion rang out, closer this time and deafening, but not enough to silence the crack of splintering wood._

__You must leave, _he tried to say._ It is too late— go! _He could hear nothing over the roar of the fire and the ringing in his ears, but Bard’s voice filtered through._

_“I can’t leave you,” he cried as Thranduil clung to his shoulders through the singed and torn fabric of his shirt. “Not again.” Thranduil didn’t understand, couldn’t think clearly enough to grasp the words as the house came down around them. Smoke clogged his throat and condensed in his lungs. Bard’s arms were around him, shielding him from the worst of it._

_Even as the smoke grew too thick to see past, even as the heat crowded in close, searing and charring until Thranduil could not distinguish between the his breath and the smoke, between his own skin and the flames, Bard’s voice was there, never faltering._

_Giving in was easy, in the end; it was not so much a choice as it was an inevitability. All Thranduil needed to do was let go._

__

∞

Nightmares were not the least of Thranduil's problems.

The days that followed his release from the hospital brought little relief from the tedium of constant care and activity. There were nurses and builders in and out of the house for days before he could regain any semblance of a routine. Galadriel had agreed to take on the supervision of his recovery, and so she oversaw the chaos that had become Thranduil's house. The couch and armchair in the den had been pushed against the far wall to make room for a pair of waist-high parallel bars and other contraptions Thranduil could scarcely guess the function of. 

These were not the only changes made to the house. Perhaps most humiliating were the railings— _grab bars_ , how crude— were installed in the washroom. The bath was gutted, replaced with a tasteless and sterile looking fibreglass fixture complete with a low lip for easy access and a seat for Thranduil's _altered abilities_.

It all felt much like a slap in the face: startling, stinging, and completely infuriating.

To make matters worse, it seemed that Gandalf's promises were no more reliable than his ethics or his ability to keep his mouth shut. Within a day of being home, Thranduil received a call from an unknown number. Habit and common sense dictated he did not answer: Tauriel was the only one to phone him with any news of business and the only other people who had reason to call were Bard and Legolas.

There was a voice message. A reporter from the Chronicle was writing a piece and had _just a few questions_ about Thranduil's work and his life. Vague, but Thranduil suspected the questions would become infinitely more probing should he give the man any sort of attention. He did not bother to hide his disdain as he deleted the message and tossed his mobile on the coffee table.

"Who was it?" Bard asked from beside him.

"A reporter," Thranduil frowned.

"Did they ask about the diagnosis or about your soulmate?"

"Nothing so direct."

"Still," Bard sighed. "It doesn't bode well." No, Thranduil wasn't inclined to think so.

And it didn't. Another call came the next day. His mobile rang three times the day after that, though he stopped listening to the messages. When Thranduil finally switched off his mobile altogether, the reporters only changed tactics.

Thranduil did his best not to let each new intrusion build up like grime on his skin and weigh him down. Of course it was only a matter of time before the press caught wind of his condition— he'd resigned himself to losing his privacy long ago— but this… 

This was not the same as a newspaper detailing his tragic history smack in the middle of an article about Greenwood's dramatic shift toward renewable energy. This was not the same as a photographer asking him to turn a certain way to either hide or accentuate his scars for a photo. This did not affect only him: this was his home. This was his _family_. 

Legolas was gone more often than not, and now knew to use Bard's mobile to contact him. The press had apparently not been able to discover Bard's identity. A small mercy— one Thranduil did not take for granted.

Bard tried to hide that the whole ordeal was wearing on him. He forced a bright smile and pressed gentle kisses to Thranduil's deepening frown. He would put on a record or a film to cover up the sounds of chatter coming from outside. And they were good distractions, while they lasted. 

Galadriel was a force to be reckoned with. She brushed off the questions and the flash of the cameras with her usual grace and composure, appearing in the entryway as an angel might appear to the dying. She breathed a gentle sigh once she'd closed the door behind her, flashing them both a bright smile as she hung her coat by the door. As troublesome as her necessary presence was, Thranduil found himself glad to have her there.

The pantry was nearly empty within the week. Bard conceded he would have had to go to the market eventually, lest they both starve and Sunday was as good a day as any. He braved the swarm of reporters who had gathered outside the front door and all along the long drive leading to the road. 

It was the first time Thranduil had been left alone in the house for any length of time since his diagnosis. He was confined to his wheelchair— rolling abomination that it was. He could not remember the last time he'd felt so lonely. And those damn reporters. They _knew_ Thranduil was alone. The calamity outside reached deafening decibels; not even The Beatles seemed to be able to drown them out. 

_Mister Oropherion—_  
If we could just speak to you for—   
Just a few questions—  
How are you adjusting to— 

It was madness. The record was no help; the additional noise only served to set Thranduil's teeth on edge. He could feel his blood pressure climbing and his chest tightening with panic. It was a losing fight without Bard there to distract him. 

He wheeled to the base of the staircase and heaved himself out of his chair; if he could not drown out the ruckus, he would just have to go where it could not reach. He could manage the steps well enough with the help of his cane and the sturdy handrail. It was slow progress, but progress nonetheless and the concentration helped to drown out the noise, at the very least. 

Thranduil was out of breath by the last step— there were twenty-two, all told— and he realized, belatedly, that he did not have his chair with him to reach the bedroom. 

A fist rapped impatiently at the door. The bell chimed. He could not turn around now. Thranduil set his brow and clenched his jaw and took a careful step forward. 

It was slow and tedious and completely humiliating, even without an audience. He leaned on his cane so heavily his hand and wrist ached, and he was barely halfway down the corridor. He paused to lean against the wall and catch his breath. The noise from outside was at least a little muffled, and he was able to breathe deeply to calm himself.

His resolve was steeled: he _would_ make it to the bedroom. He would hoist himself into bed, burrow beneath the duvet and forget all about the hoard outside his door. Bard would come home and they would forgo dinner in favour of lying in bed all evening. 

It was the strangest thing, having full sensation and yet no control over his limb. The paresthesia he'd experienced for over a week had finally abated. This was normal, Galadriel had said, but it did not mean he would regain any motor function. Only time would tell. 

He could feel the soft flannel of his pyjamas against his skin and the cool press of the hardwood against the soles of his feet. But he could not swing his leg out to step, could not tense the muscles in his thigh to keep his balance. His foot hung lifeless from his ankle and dragged across the floor as he urged himself to take another step forward. He could not command his knee to bend or lock in order to hold his weight, but he could feel the unsteady twist and the sharp tug as the joint was hyperextended. 

In the end, that was the most troublesome part. His knee buckled and he lost his balance. His cane slipped from his hand and he was pitched forward, only just able to catch himself before his head collided with the floor. His leg was twisted and trapped painfully beneath him. His cane had landed at least a metre away.

It was all Thranduil could do to pull himself up, to drag his right leg beneath him for leverage and tug at his left to just get it _out of the damn way_. It was still folded uncomfortably beneath him, but he was able to prop himself against the wall. The bedroom was still three doors away and Thranduil could not find the strength to make it past even one of them. 

Was this how his life was going to be from now on? It was unlikely that he would regain any of the function of his leg, even less likely that he would walk again without any assistance. Therapy consisted of exercises designed to preserve muscle mass, Galadriel had told him. To prevent malformation and pain.

As though Thranduil were a stranger to deformity. As though he had not spent the majority of his long life in some form of pain. As though he had any misconceptions about his abilities and limitations. He bit his tongue around these thoughts, too afraid to give them a voice. But not speaking them aloud did not make them any less true, did not change the fact that Thranduil was sprawled out on the floor of his own house. It did nothing to change the fact that he was mutilated and trapped in a body that was as useless to him as feelings of pity or self-loathing. 

And yet he remained on the floor with only these three things for company. He sat for hours, it seemed, until he could hear the door to the garage open and close. Bard's voice echoed up the stairs, but Thranduil could not bring himself to reply. 

Bard found him that way, twisted in a heap on the floor, eyes downcast and hands trembling. He whispered kind words in Thranduil's ear, held him tightly against his chest and helped him to stand. Thranduil said nothing. The sky outside was dark when they made it to the bedroom. Thranduil sat on the bed while Bard put away the groceries he'd purchased. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered when Bard returned. He was a wreck, a disappointment and a burden, and he was sorry. He closed his eyes and let himself melt into his soulmate's welcoming embrace. He fell asleep some time later as Bard held him tightly against his chest, with whispered promises of better times, of patience and love ghosting over the crown of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to share your outrage in the comments or on my [tumblr](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com)


	18. Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard slept like shit. He lay awake long enough to hear the mob outside begin to pack up and leave, long enough that he could see the moon begin to fall through the bedroom window, and long enough that he was still awake when Thranduil began to thrash and sweat beside him, flashes of panic and terror seeping through the pillows and into Bard’s own skin. He was woken up only a few hours later by the shrill and piercing ring of his mobile. As if that wasn’t enough, it was Alfrid on the other end of the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, look at me— two updates in a week! and hey, this chapter is rather light on angst! how does this happen?

Bard slept like shit. He lay awake long enough to hear the mob outside begin to pack up and leave, long enough that he could see the moon begin to fall through the bedroom window, and long enough that he was still awake when Thranduil began to thrash and sweat beside him, flashes of panic and terror seeping through the pillows and into Bard’s own skin. He was woken up only a few hours later by the shrill and piercing ring of his mobile. As if that wasn’t enough, it was Alfrid on the other end of the call. 

Of all the days for his grandda to come down with a nasty case of the stomach flu, this had to be the worst. Though he’d tried to be quiet, Thranduil was awake beside him when he disconnected the call, his mouth pressed into a thin line and tugged down at the corners. Both Thranduil's eyes were sad and grey. Bard slid beneath the duvet and settled down close beside his Englishman.

“You shouldn’t worry about me,” Thranduil’s voice rumbled against Bard’s ear. “I’ll be alright.” 

“I know you will be,” he murmured. “But if it were me, I’d want you here, not off in some boardroom downtown.” Bard pulled back just far enough to focus on Thranduil’s face. “ _I want_ to be here. I want to be with _you_ , not bloody Alfrid.” 

“I know.”

“I could stop by on my lunch,” Bard tried. “Or I could call Legolas? Or maybe—” 

“There is no need. Galadriel will be here at eleven and she’s bound to stay well into the afternoon; you know how she loves to gab.” 

“I do,” Bard laughed. Thranduil didn’t let on, but he was grateful for her presence and her attitude. It was never an imposition for her to visit, even outside her duties as a physical therapist, or to stay beyond her appointment to chat or sit down to dinner. Bard didn’t know what he would do without her ineffable calm. She'd become vital— to both of them.

“I’ll be alright.” Thranduil said again.

“You’ll be alright.” Bard repeated, more for his own sake than his soulmate’s. He climbed from the bed after only a few more minutes’ delay and pulled on a fresh shirt and pair of old jeans. He’d stopped by his flat the day before, after his trip to the market. The memory awarded him no small amount of guilt; how much longer had Thranduil been alone, on the floor and without help because he’d decided to pick up some clothes?

He tried to push the thought from his mind, but it was difficult when he looked to the bed to see Thranduil still wrapped in the duvet, eyes open and staring blankly at the wall. Bard made his way downstairs, his teeth grinding at the sound of a crowd already gathering outside the front door. He retrieved Thranduil's wheelchair from the base of the stairs, folded it and carried it up the steps. Thranduil glared at it when Bard set it down beside the bed and locked the wheels. He wished it weren't necessary. He knew how humiliated Thranduil was to be brought so low— of course he was stubborn and proud, but Bard didn't want him to risk his safety for the sake of something so trivial. 

And Thranduil would risk it. Bard didn't think he could bear to see his soulmate wounded as badly as he had been the night before. Not when he could prevent it. 

"I’ll have my mobile on," Bard said as he knelt beside the bed. "Call me for anything. If the reporters are too much or for no reason at all. Stars know I’ll be in need of a break before long.” He laughed. Thranduil smiled, but it felt hollow and without its usual warmth. 

"I'll miss you," he tried. It wasn't only Thranduil he was worried about— they hadn't been apart for more than an hour or so at a time for weeks now, and even those hours were taxing.

His Englishman's eyes seemed to focus on him for the first time that morning. "I'll miss you too." It was as if Thranduil had been holding up a wall between them and he'd finally let it fall; all his dread and resignation for the coming hours came crashing over Bard and it was enough to make him abandon the garage altogether.

"I can stay," He offered. "I'll tell Alfrid to close the shop and I'll make us breakfast instead. Grandda will be angry, but he'll understand—" 

"Bard," Thranduil's hand peaked out from beneath the bedsheets and sought him out. "Don't be silly. You're already off to a late morning. Galadriel will be here in a couple of hours. I've got my bloody wheelchair. There's only so much harm I can bring upon myself between the two." 

"Ah, there's my Englishman's crude sense of humour," Bard beamed. 

"Crude? Englishman?" Thranduil picked his head up off the pillow and propped himself up on his elbow. "Is that how you refer to me inside that head of yours?" 

"Aye," Bard laughed. "Among other things." 

"Really? What kind of other things?" Thranduil smirked and Bard's pulse surged. This was how it was supposed to be: Bard delaying his departure in favour of banter and kisses, Thranduil taunting him with sly words and a grin. 

"Adorable. Ridiculous. Posh. Sinful. Infuriating." 

"Posh?" Thranduil scowled as Bard leaned in to kiss the pout from his lips. 

"Posh, uppity, aristocratic, anachronistic Englishman." 

"How terrible it must be for you, having to suffer my eccentricities." Thranduil chided dryly. 

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Bard smiled and stole another kiss, letting his lips linger and his fingers wander over the warm stretch of Thranduil's neck. He sighed when he pulled away, resigning himself to the long day ahead of him. "I'll miss you," He said again.

"Go on," Thranduil lay back against his pillow again. Bard tipped his head to the side as he lingered, studying the gentle quirk of his lips and push the hair back from Thranduil's temple. 

"Call me," he pressed. "Doesn't matter what for. I'll be glad to hear your voice." He finally stood to leave only after his mobile chimed in his pocket with a nagging text message from Alfrid.

∞

The garage had slowed down in Bard's absence, though not for lack of work. There were two cars poised above the lift and ready to go, as well as a row of cars outside waiting to be brought in. Bard's guilt flared but he couldn't bring himself to regret the time he'd spent away. His grandda didn't blame him, he knew, but Alfrid was something of a different story. 

Not that his opinion mattered much— he was good for giving customers a tow and for running errands, though his work ethic was severely lacking. If it were up to Bard, he'd fire the miserable bastard. But his grandda saw good in everyone, apparently even in someone like Alfrid, and it wasn't his decision to make. 

He was insufferable, as always; making snide comments about one customer or another, generally gossiping and peering over Bard's shoulder to criticize his work. Bard grit his teeth and kept his comments to himself as Alfrid prodded at the issue of Bard's mysterious absence. 

"Alfrid," He sighed. "Why don't you run to the deli and pick up some sandwiches for lunch?" 

"Are you tryin' to get rid of me?" he frowned. 

"Actually," Bard sighed, "I am." He had reached the last thread of his patience and he was beyond the point of polite silence. 

"Blimey, what's got your knickers all in a twist?" 

"You have, Alfrid. Now please, either sit behind the desk and mind the phones in silence or go and get some sandwiches." 

"Yes sir, your Majesty," Alfrid sneered before turning his back and leaving Bard to the blissful quiet.

It was short lived. 

Alfrid returned with two sandwiches, dropping Bard's paper bag right on top of the engine he was repairing. He rolled his eyes but said nothing. Though it had only been a few minutes, Bard had begun to regret the way he'd spoken to him. Not enough to warrant an apology, mind, but enough that he didn't snap at him again. 

"I picked up the paper while I was out," 

"That's nice Alfrid." Bard settled in behind the desk to eat. He hadn't received a call from Thranduil yet, but he did have a text message waiting when he picked up his mobile. It was after eleven now and he was with Galadriel, likely pretending to be bothered by her tales and gossip.

"Hilda down at the deli told me I ought to read an article," he spat around bits of his sandwich as he thumbed through the paper. Bard tried his best to ignore him as he bit into his own lunch. "It's all anyone can talk about. I didn't believe them when they told me— sounds like a hoax if I ever heard one. Apparently some bloke's found his soulmate. Twice!" 

That caught Bard's attention. "Come again?" He said, careful not to let his tone come off too harsh or let his pitch climb too high. 

"That's what I said," Alfrid nodded and leaned in over the paper. It was the Chronicle, Bard could see the header from across the desk. "And that's not all— supposedly the bastard's been diagnosed with Polio! That's right, you heard me," he peered at Bard from beneath his heavy eyebrows in between leering at the pages in front of him. "Polio. In the UK, can you imagine that!" 

Bard's mind went fuzzy around the edges, his ears began to ring and before he knew what he was doing, the newspaper was crunching beneath his fingers. "Oi, I was reading that!" Alfrid cried. 

It was already open to the correct page when Bard snatched it up and began scanning furiously. Of course it was naïve of him to think that no one would print anything without an interview or a quote. The author was Saruman Curunír; Bard wondered if he was one of the people he'd fought his way past earlier that morning. 

Even without any firsthand information, the piece included several details: that Thranduil's wife had died during the Blitz, that the disease was likely contracted during the same timeframe, when Polio was common and without prevention. There were brief mentions of halted aging processes resulting in a dormant infection. Saruman didn't name Thranduil or Bard, nor did he identify his sources, expect to say that they were employed by the hospital where the man had been treated. 

"Two soulmates," Alfrid whistled and Bard's attention was drawn away from the article in front of him. "Not sure if he's the luckiest or the most _un_ lucky bloke in the world."

"Alfrid," Bard warned. He frowned so deeply his head began to ache, closed his eyes so tightly he saw stars. The newspaper was crumpled in his trembling fists. 

"Honestly, how difficult is it to get a bloody vaccine? Completely preventable. And think of the poor sod who's got stuck with a cripple for the rest of their life! If I—" 

Bard was out of his chair and grabbing Alfrid by the collar of his shirt before he'd even been aware of what he was doing. "Blimey! Have you gone mad?" Alfrid squeaked as Bard drove him backward into the truck he'd been working on.

"One more word from you Alfrid and I swear I'll—" 

"What's it to you, anyway? You haven't got bloody Polio. Unless of course he's _your_ soulmate. I hadn't pegged you for a puff, but—"

It'd been years since Bard had punched someone, but he still remembered how. The ache in his knuckles was sharp and unfamiliar and he bit his tongue around a pained and frustrated grunt. Alfrid, on the other hand, didn't bother to keep his complaints to himself. His hands immediately clamped over his mouth, mercifully muffling his words as Bard shook out his hand. 

"You're fucking insane!" Alfrid yelled as blood began to collect between his fingers. 

"Go home Alfrid, we're done for the day. You can lock up." He turned to the desk and plucked his keys— Thranduil's keys— from the hook on the wall before walking past Alfrid and out the door. He drove across town feeling far too satisfied to bother with remorse or any such nonsense. 

Stars, he'd wanted to sock that man for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to pop by on [tumblr](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com) and say hi!


	19. Fidelity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil rolled his eyes for what must have been the fifth time that day, but there was no real heat behind it. He sat in a chair in the room that used to be his den, Galadriel kneeling beside him to stretch his left leg and test its range of motion. She smiled softly and offered encouragements, commenting on his progress and ignoring all of Thranduil's complaints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's taken me _a month and a half_ to write this chapter! I really am, and I have no excuse. but you'll notice that this fic officially has a chapter count. the next chapter will be the last! it's a little last minute, but I didn't realize until a week or so ago. 
> 
> some of you guys had questions about Galadriel and her soulmate, so I hope this chapter satisfies your curiosity! 
> 
> a very heartfelt thank you to [LoveActuallyFan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/pseuds/LoveActuallyFan) who, as per usual, has been absolutely amazing as I struggled for weeks to write this chapter. she also made the art for chapter 17, which you can see below! she's taking commissions on her art blog: [plotbunniesincolour](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com)!  
> you're the best!

[ ](https://imgur.com/LKUIkDg) [](https://imgur.com/bDHhdIK)

Thranduil rolled his eyes for what must have been the fifth time that day, but there was no real heat behind it. He sat in a chair in the room that used to be his den, Galadriel kneeling beside him to stretch his left leg and test its range of motion. She smiled softly and offered encouragements, commenting on his progress and ignoring all of Thranduil's complaints.

The exercises were tedious at best; painful at their worst, but Galadriel chatted away, sharing stories from the hospital that Thranduil had been missing out on since he’d been home. It had bothered him at first— did she think he had nothing better to occupy his mind than frivolous gossip?— but then he'd realized that she was only giving him a distraction. 

It was gracious of her— kind, even— and Thranduil accepted it as a gift, grateful that she offered it without comment or calling any attention to it. She simply continued on, not realizing or else not caring that Thranduil had no idea who Elrond was or why no one seemed to listen to him.

"You've been doing the exercises I taught you, yes?" Galadriel asked once she'd concluded her story.

"Yes," Thranduil sighed. "Though I cannot see the point of them." 

"Thranduil. Darling. Are you a doctor?" Thranduil remained silent, feeling foolish. "Do you honestly think I would give you instructions that would do you no good?" 

"No," Thranduil sighed. "I suppose not." 

"Good. Our relationship requires a great deal of trust. I understand it can be difficult, that it feels as though you're giving up all of your control, but I'm here to help you, and I hope I have proven myself worthy of your trust."

"I do trust you. I didn't mean to… I apologize." 

"And you are forgiven. But there is no sense in having such a defeatist attitude. You may not notice the difference, but I do. You are stronger every time I see you."

Thranduil said nothing, trying his best not to let Galadriel's words give him false hope. Regaining strength did not mean he would be normal again. Though he hoped for nothing more than a full recovery, he knew the chances were poor and he refused to be disappointed when his progress inevitably reached a plateau. 

"Can I ask you something?" Thranduil asked after a moment of quiet had passed between them.

"Of course," 

"How old are you?" 

Galadriel laughed, a bright and startling sound that brought a light blush to Thranduil's cheeks. "Most would think it impolite to ask a woman such things."

"Oh! Forgive me, I meant no offence," 

"None taken." 

"You're different from other people I've met. The way you carry yourself, the way you speak. Your name certainly isn't very common… I only wondered." 

"I'll tell you my age if you'll tell me yours." 

Thranduil hesitated, but only for a moment. He was unused to sharing personal information, but he did trust Galadriel— though he'd only known her a short while, there were few people he trusted more. "One hundred and one," he finally said.  

Galadriel nodded slowly, as if processing this fact, though the number could not have come as a shock; she would have seen his age in his medical records.

"It's been a long time since you knew anyone who'd lived through the same things you have, hm? Someone who could understand your past, at least in part?" 

"A long time, yes." 

"You were born in… 1914? Back then I was organizing voluntary aid as a nurse with the Red Cross."

"Pardon?" 

"I've been helping people to recover from illness and injury for as long as I can remember. It's difficult to keep track of the years anymore, but I'm nearing two hundred years old." 

Thranduil was speechless. "What about your soulmate? Did something happen to…"

"Oh, no. Celeborn is quite well." 

"And is he as old as you are?"

"Not quite," Galadriel laughed. "Though he's almost as old as you are."

"Was it difficult for you? Finding your soulmate in someone so young?" 

"Yes," Galadriel smiled softly as she looked to the ceiling. "And no. I remember when I was a girl; I was so impatient. I was the only person I knew who hadn't found their soulmate by the age of twenty. I became convinced I never would. I was terribly bitter for a decade or two, but then my mother sat me down and she said something I don't think I'll ever forget. _Life is short, Galadriel. Life is short and you are only given one._ "

"If only she knew," Thranduil chuckled and shook his head.

"It sounds preposterous, I know, and I thought the same thing for a long time. But she could never have foreseen that I would live so long. It wasn't until the first world war that I think I began to understand what she meant."

"You weren't allowed to fight then, were you?" 

"I was a nurse, as I said. I served in France, as close to the trenches as I could go. I'd never seen anything so horrible. Those men… They were all so young, most still looked to be eighteen. Even after conscription began, they only drafted men who hadn't found their soulmate. They were afraid the rest of the country would fade before the war could be won, and with good reason. It was unheard of for a person to survive the loss of their bonded match.

"Many people died in my tent, under my care. Not only soldiers from the front lines, but women like me who’d merely been unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had seen death before then, of course; I'd seen families lose a loved one countless times. But I'd never been so close to it. I'd never held a person's hand as they passed, had never been the only been the only one there to mourn them. They never had the chance to meet their soulmate, were never able to fall in love or make a family. I was not so unlike them, in those respects. 

"Life is short. We are only given one. And I had spent so much of mine wishing for someone to complete it, feeling empty and bitter about being alone." 

Thranduil could say nothing, even after Galadriel fell silent. How much of his own life had he wasted by feeling tortured, by being bitter and blaming the stars for his unhappy fate? How many days had he watched bleed into the next as he sat alone, pitying himself?

"Of course, I'm luckier than most," Galadriel continued. "I've had a century since then to make up for the time I wasted. I try not to take anything for granted, especially now that I've begun to grow old. My time officially has an expiry date, but that only makes each moment more precious." 

“You don’t feel as though you’ve wasted most of your life?” 

“Do you?” 

Thranduil frowned, embarrassed by his answer, though he knew lying would do him no good. “Yes.” 

“You cannot tell me you've done nothing worthwhile. I've seen what you've done with your father's company. Without you everyone would still be drilling for oil, cutting the tops off of mountains in search of coal. You were the one who pushed for another alternatives." 

"They're still cutting the tops off of mountains, Galadriel." 

"But you're not. And others are following your lead. I'm sure you know better than I do the state of the industry. You've done good in this world, Thranduil."

"But I was still alone."

“Have I told you that Celeborn is from Essex? The same city where I lived for a decade or two. We were in the same place for years; he was treated at the hospital where I worked several times. Do you know where we met? At a market in Amsterdam. All that time spent with him so close by, and we didn’t meet until over fifty years later.” 

Thranduil laughed at the absurdity of fate or chance, or whatever fickle force dictated such matters.

“It’s ridiculous, I know. But I can see now that I wasn’t ready to meet Celeborn when I was young.” Galadriel’s smile was ever present in her eyes as she turned her gaze on Thranduil. “I was not the same person then as I am now, just as I’m certain you are an entirely different person than you were years ago. I cannot speak to your experience, but if Celeborn had come to me one hundred, even fifty years ago, I do not think we would have been matched nearly so well.”

“So the time I spent alone after Rían died was all to make me a better person? You think there is a purpose behind it all. That everything happens for a reason?” 

“I believe we bring others into our lives when we are ready to receive them. It is not only to whom we are bonded, but when we bond with them that makes a match perfect.” 

It was then that Thranduil heard a commotion from outside. The sound was dampened by the distance, but it was unmistakable. A loud thud echoed through the walls of the house and immediately shouts sprung up; the roar of so many excited voices calling over one another. The sound of a door opening reached the den, the shouting echoing loudly through the empty rooms before the same door slammed closed. 

Galadriel stood, holding her hands out to help Thranduil even before he could ask. They left the den and made their way down the hall, Galadriel supporting Thranduil's weight and helping him to keep his balance with effortless grace.

“Bard!” Thranduil nearly left Galadriel behind as he rushed forward. But she held ever tighter to his arm, hurrying along beside him. “What are you doing home so early?” Bard was standing in the foyer, his fists clenched at his sides, his eyes furious and far away. “What happened?” 

Slowly, Bard’s eyes seemed to focus. He blinked as the tension seemed to seep from his shoulders and the tendons leapt and stretched over his knuckles. Thranduil reached his side with Galadriel’s help and immediately he frowned. “You’re bleeding!” 

Bard blinked again, his lips parting as though a thought had occurred to him, but he did not give voice to it. 

“It was those damned reporters, wasn’t it?” Thranduil growled. Even now he could hear them as they continued to shout and knock on the door. “I’m calling the police.”

“Come and sit first, the both of you.” Galadriel tugged on Thranduil’s arm. Bard took Thranduil’s free hand and together they walked to the sofa. Galadriel helped them both to sit before she left them, tracing her path back toward the den as Thranduil pulled his mobile from his pocket. The operator connected him with the local authorities and they promised to arrive quickly to clear the crowd outside.

Bard snapped quickly to attention as Thranduil ended the call. “I threw the first punch,” he said. “What if he presses charges?” 

“I should like to see him try. He’ll find himself facing charges for harassment and trespassing before he can so much as blink. And libel, if he prints a single word.”

“He’s already printed. Saruman, the man Gandalf spoke to. There’s a feature in this morning’s Chronicle.” 

“What?”

“He says he’s got a source from inside the hospital.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Galadriel had returned, clutching her large bag as she came to sit beside Bard on the sofa. 

“I saw it today. He doesn’t name anyone, but it has to be true; his speculation can’t possibly be that accurate.”

The entire room seemed to darken as Galadriel’s demeanour shifted dramatically. “I’ll see that it gets taken care of,” she nearly growled before turning her attention to the wound high on Bard’s cheekbone. Apparently, she came prepared; from her bag she pulled disinfectant and clean gauze, as well as a small bandage.

“What happened? Why are you home so soon? I told you not to worry about me,”

“I socked Alfrid. At the garage.” 

Thranduil blinked. “You did what?”

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t seen it coming. Or that I regret it.” Bard turned to Thranduil, oblivious or else uncaring for Galadriel’s instructions for him to keep still. “The things he said— I couldn’t stand to listen to another word. And then I came here and those _vultures_ started swarming and I... “

“Bard,” Galadriel said as she dabbed the edges of the wound around the bandage. “I know it’s frustrating, but  you’ll start bleeding again if you don’t stay calm.” 

“Sorry,” Bard murmured.

“People will always talk, Bard.” Thranduil took his hand, ran his fingers over the bone and sinew of his knuckles, eyes catching on the reddening bruises forming there. “They’ve been writing and gossiping about me almost as long as I’ve been alive. I’m sorry to drag you into the crossfire, but they won’t be put off the scent of blood so easily.” 

“How do you deal with it? With them shouting at you and waiting to catch you outside your door?” 

“By waiting for them to grow bored." Thranduil shrugged. Already the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance, growing louder over the rabble outside. "And by phoning the police when they don't."

∞

Thranduil sat before the tall windows in the sunroom. He studied the forest beyond his garden, now blissfully empty, and watched as the sunset soaked the clouds in shades of orange and pink.

"Are you alright?" Bard asked from just behind him.

"Shh," Thranduil blindly searched for Bard's arm, keeping his eyes on the the forest as he found his soulmate and held on. "I'm listening." 

Bard knelt beside him and waited. "What are you listening to?" he asked after a time. "I don't hear anything." 

"Exactly," Thranduil smiled and twined his fingers through Bard's, lifting his hand to place a kiss upon his bruised knuckles. Bard laughed, but when Thranduil turned to study him, he found that his soulmate had been captured by the view outside, too. "It's been a long day." Thranduil sighed.

"Aye," Bard squeezed his fingers gently. "That it has. I'm ready for bed already." 

"Mmm," Thranduil hummed. "Bed sounds lovely." Bard stood and held out his hands for Thranduil to take. He did, and delighted in the way Bard pulled him close against his side, as though he held him out of want rather than necessity. And perhaps he did. Perhaps requiring assistance would not be so terrible, if Bard was the one to offer it. 

They climbed the stairs and closed the bedroom door, shedding the stresses of the day with each article of clothing, until finally they fell into bed beside each other. 

"Are you a different person now than you were at eighteen?" Thranduil asked, though he was hesitant to break the silence that clung to the walls around them. 

"Of course. I'm a different person now than I was even a year ago. Why do you ask?" 

"Something Galadriel said." 

"What did she say?" 

"That we bring people into our lives only when we're ready for them. That a soul bond is dependent upon timing, not just people." 

"She's a wise woman," Bard said after a moment.

Thranduil thought on their conversation that afternoon. He thought of the time he believed he'd wasted, of the person he was now and the person he had been. He had assumed Bard was the one to change him— that finding his soulmate had made him better. But perhaps Galadriel was right, and he could not have found Bard any sooner than he had. "Wise indeed." 

"Stars, imagine if we had met when I was eighteen? I can't imagine how I would have reacted to falling in love with someone so old." 

"Oi!" Thranduil scoffed and flung his arm out blindly, landing a satisfying smack across Bard's arm. Thranduil reached out for his soulmate, joining in his light laughter. The duvet billowed above them as Thranduil shuffled forward, feeling his way toward Bard in the darkness. 

Bard's words echoed as Thranduil settled against his chest. _Love_. It was a foreign word, long disused, but the more Thranduil turned it over in his head, the more true it felt. 

This was where he belonged. What did seventy-five years matter when he could spend endless hours holding Bard close? What did it matter that he couldn't walk on his own when all he needed to do was lie beside his soulmate and drift into sleep? Here he was safe; here he was whole. Here he needn't worry about what others thought of him. Here, all that mattered was the heat of Bard's skin beneath his fingers, the curve of Bard's smile against Thranduil's lips as in the dark.

"Bard?"

"Hm?"

"I love you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com)! feel free to come say hi!


	20. Finality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The house was quiet, but that did not mean it was empty. Thranduil's car, the one he'd all but given to Bard after his diagnosis, was parked in the drive. The door leading in from the garage had been unlocked and the windows in the dining room were open, letting in the light spring breeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this is it! almost eleven months later and I've finally finished my first piece of fanfiction! I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get this last chapter written. life has been rather hectic, but I told myself today was the day I finished this piece. so here we are! 
> 
> I want to thank everyone who's read this story, and especially those of you who have left feedback, both in the comments and on tumblr. I never anticipated such a great response to this fic, and I'm so grateful to each of you! 
> 
> A special thank you to [LoveActuallyFan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/pseuds/LoveActuallyFan) for always being a source of inspiration, for being a soundboard for all my ridiculous ideas, for giving me a good nudge when I needed motivation, and especially for the artwork ([x](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/post/129219490073/inexplicable-inspired-art-series-of-pieces-for)[x](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/post/131038338308/inexplicable-inspired-art-thranduils-scars)[x](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/post/130507268503/inexplicable-inspired-art-fever-dream-thranduil)[x](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/post/138858044258/thranduil-inexplicable-illustration-thranduil)[x](http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/post/139532660648/thranduil-illustration-for-inexplicable-thranduil)) she's made for this fic!  
> this story would not be half of what it is without you. thank you ♡
> 
> visit [plotbunniesincolour](http://www.plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com) to check out all her art and to request a commission!

Thranduil closed the door behind him and felt the stiffness ease slightly from his shoulders. The weather outside was unseasonably warm and he'd spent the day at the Greenwood offices. While he was eager to shrug off his stuffy suit in favour of a comfortable shirt and pair of flannel bottoms, he knew he ought to maintain at least some of his composure for the evening. 

Galadriel would be arriving at eight. Their appointments had grown less and less frequent as Thranduil had improved. They saw each other less and less as the months drew on, and he'd invited her to dinner in a moment of uncharacteristic sentimentality. And she'd agreed, so long as she was able bring a special guest with her. He had assumed it would be her husband, but she had only smiled when he'd asked, her eyes glittering with their ever-present mischief. 

Thranduil hung his jacket on the coatrack, tugged at his tie to loosen the knot around his neck, and leaned against the wall for balance so that he could slip out of his shoes. 

Of course, there was still the small matter of preparing dinner. In hindsight, Thranduil could have planned his day a bit better, but Legolas would arrive soon to help and that, at least, was a comfort. 

The house was quiet, but that did not mean it was empty. Thranduil's car, the one he'd all but given to Bard after his diagnosis, was parked in the drive. The door leading in from the garage had been unlocked and the windows in the dining room were open, letting in the light spring breeze. 

"Bard?" He called. 

"Up here," 

Thranduil set off through the house, leaning heavily upon his cane. He could walk well enough with it for longer periods of time, but he'd been on his feet all day and he was tired. The cane itself was a dreadful apparatus; made of ugly anodized aluminum, the adjustable staff was too short for comfortable use even at its longest setting. It clicked with each step, the hollow metal felt unstable beneath his weight, and the rubber cap made an awful squelching sound against the hardwood floor. 

If Thranduil had hated it when he'd first been told to use it, he positively loathed it now.

Bard was halfway down the stairs when Thranduil finally made it into the living room. He frowned. "Long day?" 

Thranduil sighed. "The next time I get it in my head to go into the office for more than a couple of hours, please remind me that I'm an idiot, and that I promoted Tauriel for a reason." 

Bard bounded down the remaining steps with an easy, youthful strength. It prodded at the cycle of envy and guilt always churning in Thranduil's gut, but then Bard kissed him, and Thranduil surrendered to the scratch of Bard's beard against his chin. 

Thranduil smiled, all his brooding and self-deprecation forgotten amongst the slow slide of their lips and the brush of Bard's fingers on the skin above his collar. Bard's hair was soft between Thranduil's fingers and he breathed a contented sigh

"Do you think Galadriel would be upset if we called to cancel dinner?" He murmured, dreading the prospect of a dinner party when the only company he could ever want was here in front of him. 

"I think she would show up anyway. She'd be five minutes early and she'd be carrying dessert and a bottle of fine wine." Bard laughed. He was right, of course— they'd dined with Galadriel often enough to know that wine and a sweet dish were her vices of choice, and that she always arrived early— but in that moment he wanted nothing more than to spend the entire evening draped in blankets and wrapped in his soulmate's arms. 

"You're probably right,"

"Is Legolas on his way?" 

"Yes, but he's still over an hour away." 

"I wonder," Bard hummed, his voice tickling at the hinge of Thranduil's jaw, "What we will do with ourselves in the meantime?" 

"Oh, I'm sure I could find some work to do," Thranduil chuckled as Bard's tongue teased his ear. "Unless you have a better idea?" 

"Aye," Bard nipped at the sensitive shell of Thranduil's ear, leisurely taking apart Thranduil's composure, as though the impending threat of dinner meant nothing to him. "I'm sure I can think of something." 

Without warning, Thranduil was airborne. "What are you doing?" He laughed and clutched at Bard's shoulders, his cane left to topple onto the carpet as Bard carried him across the living room. They climbed the stairs, Bard's strong arms cradling Thranduil securely against his chest.

"I'm stealing you away," Bard dropped him onto their bed, scattering pillows as he climbed onto the mattress beside him. "You've been occupied with work for far too long." 

"Best take advantage then," Thranduil murmured beneath the soft press of Bard's lips. "We are both expected to make an appearance later tonight. It would be a shame if we were not there to greet our guests." He slid his fingers through Bard's hair, gripping the thick waves when his knuckles caught on the haphazard tangles there.

Bard smirked and kissed him again, coming to kneel over Thranduil's hips so he could continue his slow, torturous seduction. Thranduil grew impatient and tugged more insistently at Bard's hair. Thranduil growled into his mouth but Bard only chuckled and disentangled Thranduil's hands, easing them onto the duvet. He traced his fingers over Thranduil's palms and the soft skin of his wrist, his touch just light enough to tickle.

Thranduil thought he would go mad before he could find any satisfaction this way. He lay back on the bed for what seemed an eternity as Bard kissed him and caressed him— his frustration growing with each teasing brush of Bard's fingers. 

"I am not fragile," Thranduil grumbled. "I will not break." 

"I know," Bard grinned.

"Do you?" Thranduil challenged, finally reaching down, past Bard's shoulders and the hem of his soft T-shirt, determined to take matters into his own hands. 

Thranduil arched his hips upward, grinding roughly, smirking when the sudden motion caught Bard off guard. His hands found the button and zip of Bard's fly, working them both deftly open before diving his hands inside. He dipped into Bard's pants, ripping his cock roughly until Bard moaned from his perch above him. 

Then, when Bard's eyes slipped closed and his breath caught sharply on a ragged exhale, Thranduil withdrew. He looked innocently up at his soulmate, content to tease by just barely grazing the growing bulge in Bard's pants from outside his jeans. He continued this way, tracing patterns lazily along the tense plane of Bard's hip and higher, over his abdomen. 

Thranduil could see Bard's arms straining to hold still, could feel his legs trembling with the effort of his restraint. His eyes had turned dark and his breath had grown harsh. Thranduil offered only a coy smile, content to watch Bard's resolve crumble and wait for his next move. 

Bard dove down suddenly, stealing Thranduil's lips in a swift, ferocious kiss that tore a gasp from his lungs. All traces of the slow teasing had vanished; Bard's teeth nipped at Thranduil's neck and his hands tore open the buttons of Thranduil's shirt. Thranduil groaned as Bard bit down on his collarbone, abandoning his shirt in favour of prying open Thranduil's trousers.

Bard dragged Thranduil's trousers and pants down his hips, and over his thighs before throwing them to the floor. Need flared hot beneath Thranduil's skin as Bard watched him, eyes following his movements as Thranduil pulled his shirt from his shoulders. He spread his legs just a bit wider, thrilling at the sight of Bard's predatory gaze. He felt none of the self-consciousness that had plagued him all those months ago; where once he might have shied away from such an open, lustful stare, now he revelled in it. Thranduil stretched to retrieve the bottle of lubricant from the bedside table and dropped it carelessly on the duvet by his knee.

Bard gripped Thranduil's hips, every muscle radiating with raw passion. Thranduil moaned, high pitched and needy as Bard settled Thranduil's thighs around him.

Thranduil panted and squirmed as Bard's cool, slick fingers pressed against him. He arched against Bard again, not in the mood to waste time on lengthy preparations. He wanted Bard— needed him— the need yawned within him, desperate and clawing against the boundaries of his skin. He reached for Bard's shoulders, his fingers twisting in the collar of the T-shirt Bard hadn't bothered to take off.

He pulled Bard into a heated kiss, more teeth than lips or tongue, not caring whether their dinner guests would see the marks left behind. "Bard," he gasped. "Now, please." 

Thranduil considered it a mercy that Bard did not make him wait any longer. He pulled Thranduil close and eased his way inside, slowly at first until Thranduil urged him along with his heels pressed low against Bard's back. 

Thranduil continued to set the pace, shocking Bard out of any routine he might fall into until Bard seemed to reach a tipping point. He pressed his fingers into the sinew and bone of Thranduil's hips, holding him still as he drove forward with such intense ferocity.

It wasn't long before Thranduil was panting, overheated and mindless, his climax rushing to meet him as he shouted Bard's name. His hands found purchase at the back of Bard's neck and his broad shoulders and he could do nothing but hold on. He lay gasping on the duvet as Bard collapsed beside him, fighting and failing to gain control of his breath and his erratic heartbeat. 

His mind was blank— the stress of the day mercifully absent as Bard drew him into his arms. 

They didn't hear the front door open. It wasn't until Legolas called up the stairs for them that Thranduil remembered they were having company over for dinner.

∞

True to Bard's prediction, Galadriel arrived early, a cheesecake and a bottle of wine in her hands. Bard laughed as he took her coat. "You'll spoil us!"

"It's good to indulge from time to time! It keeps you young." She smiled and tossed Thranduil a slight wink from across the foyer.

"I'll have to defer to your better judgement there," Bard laughed. "You've much more experience at staying young than I have." 

Galadriel levelled Bard with her most withering look. "If you're quite finished, I'd like to introduce a dear friend of mine. Tyelpe, this is Bard." 

"How d'you do?" 

"And Thranduil is apparently too proud to come and greet us," Galadriel chided. 

"Not too proud, just thoroughly exhausted," Thranduil smirked. 

"Ada!" Legolas emerged from the kitchen looking positively mortified. "Though I am under no illusions about what you two were up to when I arrived, I would prefer not to think about it if I can help it." 

"Oh, let your father have his fun!" Galadriel said. 

"How did you two meet?" Bard asked, deftly shifting the conversation. 

"Tyelpe and I met at University… goodness, how long ago is it now?"

"Oh, that was first year they began accepting women for degree programs… it was seventy-eight, wasn't it?"

"What sort of university wasn't accepting women until the seventies?" Bard frowned.

"Oh, no darling," Galadriel laughed, " _eighteen_ seventy-eight." 

"Stars," Bard groaned. "You lot never fail to make me feel like a child when you get together. Here I'd hoped you might've brought a lad my age for me to talk to!" 

"Apparently Galadriel knows everyone in the country older than eighty," Thranduil teased, but he was secretly glad he was no longer the oldest person in the room.

"Sorry to disappoint, though I hope you'll still have me; Galadriel speaks of you so often and I'm glad to finally be able to have faces to go along with all the tales." 

"There you go," Thranduil joked, "we've not even met and already he has a poor opinion of us." 

"Nonsense!" Galadriel laughed. 

The next two hours passed quickly; the company was good and the conversation flowed freely. Laughter and tales were shared over a feast of good food rich wine, and by the time the grandfather clock chimed nine O'clock, dinner had been finished. Galadriel went to fetch dessert and Legolas rose to help her. Bard stood to show Tyelpe where to find the washroom, leaving Thranduil alone at the table. 

Silence in the wake of such commotion left his ears ringing, left the room feeling larger and more cavernous. He stood from his chair and retrieved his cane from its perch on the edge of the table, thinking he might help with dessert in the kitchen. But he would be of little help with only one free hand, he realized, and quickly decided to move to the living room instead. There was no need to soil a perfectly pleasant evening with such sour thoughts. He sank immediately onto the sofa and nursed what was left of his wine.

All at once, he was not alone anymore. Bard came to sit on the sofa beside him and Galadriel settled into one of the armchairs. Legolas perched himself on the arm of another chair across the room. No one spoke. Everyone was staring at Thranduil. 

"Is this an intervention?" he asked, warily. 

"What? Of course not! Why would you think that?" 

"Because you're all sitting around staring at me, saying nothing. As though you're waiting for something." 

"Well Tyelpe actually—" 

"—Will be here momentarily," Galadriel shared a look with Bard before returning her gaze to Thranduil. "Not to worry darling. All in due time." 

"I've not had any more to drink than you, I don't know why—" 

"This is _not_ an intervention, love." Bard slid his fingers between Thranduil's and held on tight. "Honest."

"Has someone died?" He turned back to Galadriel. "I went in for bloodwork last week, is there something wrong?" 

"No, no, nothing so serious!" She laughed. "Everything is alright, truly, we're only waiting on— ah, Tyelpe! Just in time." 

"In time for what? We're only sitting here, keeping secrets!" Thranduil tried for a joking tone, but he truly was growing nervous there was some problem he ought to know about.

"They've been keeping secrets on my behalf, I'm afraid." Tyelpe crossed the room stiffly and came to stand beside Galadriel with his hands hidden behind his back. 

"Tyelpe is something of an artist," Galadriel offered. "Have I mentioned that? A smith by trade; he makes the most exquisite jewellery. He's been perfecting his craft since University!"

"I dabble," he shrugged, but Galadriel's praise had brought a light blush to his cheeks. 

"Do not be fooled by his false modesty; he knows just how talented he is, though perhaps he has grown senile in his old age." 

"Galadriel gave me a project a few months back," he said, shooting Galadriel a playful, withering look. "It was something of a challenge, too. My experience is with jewellery, as she said, but she was very… particular about this piece." 

"Oh, don't keep him waiting any longer! Show him already, Tyelpe!" From behind his back, Tyelpe brought a long, narrow box and held it out to Thranduil. Thranduil hesitated, looking to each person in turn before he took the box. 

The room fell silent— as though everyone was holding their breath as they waited. Thranduil lay the box across his lap. The suspense was thick in the air, but the defensive edge had vanished from Thranduil's thoughts as he lifted the lid. 

Thranduil dug through layer upon layer of black tissue paper, until he wondered whether the box was actually empty. He chanced a glance at Galadriel, but her anticipation made it evident that there was indeed more inside the box than elaborate packaging. Sure enough, Thranduil peeled back one last layer of tissue to reveal a glint of silver, the metal shining even in the dim light of the living room. 

"What is this?" He chuckled nervously as he reached inside. What he found made the breath freeze inside his chest. It was a cane, Thranduil supposed, though the word could hardly do it justice.

The staff was irregular in shape; the carved wood showed hints of the knots left behind by smaller branches, but it was stained dark and smooth. The silver Thranduil had glimpsed was set into the wood, spiralling elegantly along the length of the staff and coalescing to end in a sterling cap. The handle was curved, grooved and white against the dark wood. 

"Is this… is this the deer's antler you found by the edge of my garden a few months ago?" He looked up with wide eyes to see Galadriel smiling brilliantly, the satisfaction of a well-kept secret crinkling in the corner of her eyes. "You've been planning this since then?" 

"It became clear to me that you wouldn't need your chair much longer. And you couldn't go around using _that_ for much longer." she nodded to the aluminum cane Thranduil had propped against the arm of the sofa beside him. "It's much too short, as I'm sure you've noticed." 

"You… you both knew about this?" Legolas said nothing, but his smile said enough. "Bard?" 

"Galadriel asked me to take some measurements," he blushed. 

"Is _that_ why you insisted on coming to the tailor with me? I thought he was taking such strange measurements," 

Thranduil felt none of the embarrassment he might have expected after being fooled for so long. He studied the staff and then each of the people surrounding him, words lost amidst the swell of emotion lodged in his throat. He blinked furiously, but tears welled hot in his eyes. "I don't… I don't know what to say," 

"Well give it a try," Galadriel chimed in, "See how you like it." 

Thranduil felt the thrill of anticipation rush through him as he set the cane on the floor, testing its strength beneath his palm. 

"The staff is reinforced with titanium," Tyelpe offered. "And the handle, too. You don't have to worry about it breaking." Thranduil leaned his weight upon it more heavily, but Tyelpe's promise held true; there was none of the unsteadiness he was so accustomed to feeling with the aluminum cane. Bard stood nearby, ready to keep Thranduil on his feet if need be, but to his surprise, he was able to stand with little difficulty. 

Galadriel was studying his posture, asking Thranduil questions and conferring with Teylpe, but Thranduil could hear none of it. The staff was a solid, welcome pressure beneath his palm and Thranduil was suddenly overcome with such intense gratitude. He stepped forward to embrace Galadriel, interrupting her mid-sentence, though she hardly seemed to mind. 

"Thank you." His voice cracked and his vision was clouded by tears, but he couldn't help the smile and the joy that spread over him. "I don't know what I could've done to deserve this, but thank you. All of you. Truly." 

Galadriel had told him once that they brought others into their lives only once they were ready to receive them; that Thranduil's time spent alone had not been wasted, but had given him time to become the person he was now— someone who was capable of loving, and of being loved.

It was in that moment that Thranduil realized: whether by fate or by chance, he was _meant_ to find each person in this room. Perhaps if he had done things differently he could have spared himself some of the pain. But how could he wish that, knowing that _this_ was the result?

Even if it were possible to go back and do things differently, Thranduil knew he would not change a single moment. Every decision, every tragedy and struggle, every mistake and every lonely, helpless day… every one of them had brought him here. 

They had brought him to his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyelpe = Celebrimbor, for those who might be a little confused. he made the three elven rings of power, one of which belongs to Galadriel. I think I'll bring him back in this universe!
> 
> if you could, please leave a comment to let me know what you think or offer a suggestion or just say hi— I'd like to thank you all!


End file.
